Recently, my desk has become a cluttered storage space for everything I should get to - writing poetry, writing lessons, translating, and typing correspondence. Since the loss of my daughter, I've done very little writing. I've found myself letting letters go unanswered. I went two weeks without checking my voicemail. Cluttered and disorganized, stacked and backlogged - a desk is a good reflection of the inner state of a writer, at least in my case. Perhaps non-writers' inner states show elsewhere.
This desk has been passed around my family. I think it was my sister's originally, probably picked at a garage sale. I commandeered it in middle school. The initials of one of my first girlfriends are faintly carved into the front. Pictures and explanatory notes below:
|Apparently I did think to change a thing or two, as there is a stapler in this picture but not the one above. Pink was the only color left at Meijer.|