I had a realization today. I can't sit at my desk to write. Or, at least I don't. Ever.
I have a pretty white desk in the window of my living room. It's exactly where I wanted it. We changed the drawer pull from boring metal to sparkly cut glass. Didn't work. So I got a beautiful crystal lamp and put that on top. Nope. A headily scented Lollia candle, a Buddha statue and a potted orchid? Still no.
I write on the sofa curled up in the left corner, or in my big, white bed late at night, or outside on the deck if the weather is favorable.
But the pretty desk is fantastically functional as a surface for my writerly vignettes. I arrange fresh flowers and framed photographs, or pile up beautiful books and then stack a china teacup on top, then I sip my tea whilst gazing out the window at my lilies, lavender and roses and daydreaming, but not writing. The desk seems to be some sort of symbolic furniture icon reminding me that I am, indeed, a writer. I can't not have a desk. Believe me, I considered this. That coveted spot under the window is also the perfect place for a vintage settee.
What I actually want is an even prettier desk to not write at. Perhaps some sexy contemporary desk, all glossy white lacquer with chrome details like a fashion editor might sit at, or maybe a romantic antique French desk with gilded edges and secret drawers that open with an intricately forged key which I would keep safely strung on a pale blue satin ribbon and one drawer would have a false bottom where I would stash secret letters from my lover. (Yes, I admit to imaginary furniture fantasies.)
Every writer needs a desk to write or not write at. Even if mine is more of multi-dimensional inspiration board, than an actual piece of office furniture, it has its purpose. So be it.
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