I can’t believe that in just a few days, I’ll (finally) be a published author.
When I first started working on my book, “Prada and Prejudice,” I wrote at the kitchen table, either on a legal pad or at my laptop. This was okay until (a) my husband came home and began to open cabinets or stood in front of the refrigerator peering inside (usually while talking to someone on his speaker phone); or until (b) it was time to fix dinner.
Reluctantly I’d put Natalie and Rhys aside to make room for the meatloaf and mashed potatoes. (I know, I know. What can I say? I hadn’t cut back on carbs yet.)
So I moved my laptop to the only movable work surface I had – an end table, one used in more genteel times for serving tea, perfect because it was taller than an ordinary end table.
Perfect… except that after about an hour hunched over that table, I had a backache, carpal tunnel syndrome, and a stiff shoulder. But I persevered. Because, really, what choice did I have?
Katie, writing on the floor…but smiling nonetheless
About a year and a half ago, I bought a desk at Target – black, one middle drawer. It wasn’t the biggest desk, or the most beautiful; but it got the job done. And now I had room for more than just my laptop. I could actually fit other stuff on my desktop. My notes, for instance, or a can of Diet Coke, even a pencil jar. It was desktop Nirvana.
But as my writing workload increased – structural edits, how I loathe thee – surface real estate was at a premium. My desk became a war zone of highlighter pens, scribbled notes, half-empty coffee cups, editor’s letters, legal pads, and Post-It notes. Stacks of magazines and books – reference material – cluttered the floor.
It was clear I’d outgrown my desk.
So back to Target I went, and I found the perfect replacement – this desk had a much larger work surface, it was nice to look at, and it had three drawers. Sold!
I moved stuff from my old desk drawer to the new drawers, and arranged the pencils and calculator and the bin of colored paper clips neatly inside. And for now, it works.
I still dream of the day when I’ll have a beautiful study with an antique desk and a leopard-print rug and a top-floor, sweeping view of the ocean. Or a rainy Paris street. Anything but these slanted eaves and that odd-shaped stain on the ceiling that looks vaguely like my brother-in-law’s nose.
But for now? It works. And that’s enough.
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