Not Having a Desk to Write (and Writing Anyway)

church garden in Dublin

I am a Deskless Writer.

Like the Headless Horseman, I roam my apartment in search of my desk. I don’t know where my desk is, I have misplaced it, it has been taken from me, and I want it back.

I crave having a desk. I want a designated writing space. I want a Room of My Own. 

I keep a running mood board in my mind of the perfect writing set up:

Some days I imagine I am writing on a sleek desk, a modern and efficient surface that is ever dust-free. No mess, no fuss, not a cable in site or stray pen, everything is compact and precise and orderly and fits in one drawer when I am done writing for the day. Paper does not exist on this desk. That is a thing of the past. On this desk thoughts and words and clutter evaporate into a cloud.

Other days I write on a generous mahogany desk, tones of deep red from a Venetian chandelier warm the creamy pages of my leather-bound journal. Velvet green curtains match the ink that flows from my nib and the room smells of thick coffee.  

In the Spring I write on an expanse of white-washed pine, crayons, coloring pencils and markers spill out from brightly painted boxes. Rolls of paper and spools of ribbon criss-cross the color splattered desk. Glittery fingers and rainbow smudged pages dance in a riot of flower petals and fresh fruit.

In the Summer I write on the terace or the wrap-around porch, always on a glass-topped wicker table that is painted in Sailor’s White, sweet iced-tea, with a wedge of lemon. I’ll stay here till the Fall, a wool blanket warming my legs, writing through the changing colors of the leaves.

The truth is that I am a Deskless Writer. I have no Room of My Own to write in. One day I will. For now I continue to write on the kitchen table. It works. 

Write as you are. Where you are. Write now. Right now. The rest is on it’s way.