A Desk of One's Own

Author's Note: I am resurrecting this short story I wrote in 2011 when researching my journals for my memoir, which eventually became Writing in Wet Cement.

“I wanted to be a writer, once. But I wasn’t any good. It's hard work, you know. Writing is a lonely business.” 1

I remembered those words from a movie I had recently seen. Thoughts coalesced in my mind. I had just read an article regarding memoir writing. I was reflecting on how I hated that word, “memoir.” Yet the article had very good insights. Excerpts from Flannery O’Connor, Paddy Chayefsky, and William Maxwell. Not bad company to be in, as a wanna-be-writer/author. Perhaps these writer’s words could inspire me in my ambitions. The advice I had read over and over again, from Virginia Woolf’s Room of One’s Own to Writer’s Tools and Anonymous Was a Woman was:

“Find a place to write. Have a comfortable desk. Clear it of any clutter. Go there every day. For at least 45 minutes or many hours. Go there. Write. Do it.” 

Yeah, I’ve heard this before, I admonished myself. Yet, why do all great writers provide the same advice? Maybe because it’s true? I thought.

I inventoried the rooms in my home, the favorite places where I hoped I could begin my mission on the road to becoming a full-fledged writer; the beginning of my writer’s journey. Carlos Castaneda in his quest called these special nooks, ‘your spot’, where you are most comfortable, places in your home uniquely your own. Where was my spot for writing? I wondered.

Finally, it came to me. The antique bookcase desk in our bedroom. I could stagger there, half asleep in the middle of the night or upon waking each morning. I could plop down into the cushioned corner chair. There I would be willing to write, happy to write. Was this my spot, the inglenook most conducive to contemplation and writing? 

I decided to put my theory to the test. I don’t know why I didn’t think of this special place before. My mother’s ashes sit in this desk in a heart-shaped tin. All the journals of my life are sheltered on the shelves. Added to this collection from my past lives are photos of my mother, grandmother, my children, Tim and I, and Tim’s daughter and our grandchildren. They all sit together happily sharing this space on my desk. Small mementos are nestled everywhere in hidden cubby holes.  My jewelry, sentimental pieces I can’t give away and which I rarely wear, are stored in a cubbyhole. Beneath the lift-top-desk are all the letters I’ve written over the years, but never sent. All that anger, all that sorrow, archived under my desktop. Letters burning to be sent but never mailed to their destinations. These past words will linger beneath my hands as I write. No need to stir up a hornet’s nest, I leave the letters untouched.

I look more closely at the photographs behind the glass, hidden away in my desk. In front of me are photos of my children, such adorable photographs. My daughter is about two and is wearing a pretty pink- smocked dress. This photo was taken in Sacramento, at our first true home, in 1978. I can tell by my daughter’s haircut that it is professional and perfect, as we had a good, inexpensive stylist in our Land Park neighborhood. She is looking into the camera and has that tiny, shy smile on her face. She is so young and sweet and innocent in her pink-smocked dress.

Years later is a photograph of my son. In Sacramento at two already his grin is all-encompassing, full of laughter, mischievousness, and joy. In Salinas, at seven, he exudes confidence. My sweet boy is wearing his favorite rugby shirt, just like his dad’s. His cheeks are chubby, he is incredibly huggable. I wish I could hold him in my arms at this moment. But he is now 44 and lives with his family in Brooklyn. At seven he would have happily accepted my hug and would have buried himself in my arms, nuzzling into me. Where my son was an exuberant, bouncing teddy bear, my daughter was a very delicate flower. She was always timid and shy, exactly like myself at her age. She was her own entity and not to be approached abruptly. She was like a deer in a forest clearing lit with beauty and her shyness. To approach my daughter one had to tread carefully. One step at a time until she trusted others and allowed them into her circle. She was a contrast to my son’s gleeful, open exuberance with her sweet, tender fragility. I loved being a part of my children’s lives when they were young before they moved away to college and began lives of their own. 

Those years my favorite quote was one I discovered while living in Vermont at the age of twenty, years before I became a mother. I was an untarnished, naive, child-woman, discovering my own path to the future. The quote, paraphrased from my memory was, “You must help your children to learn to walk but then you must give them wings to fly.”  At that stage in my life, I was trying out my wings and was having a joyous flight in those beautiful green hills of Vermont. My children have acquired their wings and are having wonderful flights of their own, in Brooklyn and Philadelphia with their own growing families and career.

That day in 2011 I completed this story. I carefully examined my desk. I began my first writing enterprise there, at my comforting, special spot. As I settled into my corner chair with my journal and favorite pen I clearly remember thinking, “Yes, I think this will work as a desk of my own, a special spot for my writing future.” Happily, that worked for me then, long before my sweet husband made me a room of my own in which to write. My first writing nook was in a closet in my children’s playroom in Sacramento. I guess one could say I have evolved as a writer. I’ve come out of the closet and have built my life around words, memories, and dreams. My two published books rest on a shelf in my office library.

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