A Desk of One's Own

I've had desks all my life. Desks to study at, desks to read at, desks to draw at, desks to type at, desks to play computer games at. You get the picture. I've had desks for many, many purposes.

To date, the best desk I've ever had was in Washington, DC, between fall of 2000 and spring of 2001. I bought this massive, huge slab of desk at Ikea, it was probably as big as a door. It had a small set of drawers hanging off one side and then beautiful, blank open space. I piled books, journal article printouts, class folders, tons of wire-ring notebooks filled with my scribbled notes from classes with fancy and inspiring names like "The US in World Affairs" (I wrote my infamous Hawaiian independence paper for that class), "Analysis of US Foreign Policy" (the paper for this class was published in an undergraduate research journal), "Intro to IR Research" (there was literally one piece of existing research on the topic I developed for this class... my paper did not add much to that though, sadly), and "Emerging Issues in Intelligence" (we had former spies as guest lecturers!). I felt so smart and productive at that desk and, you know, I got shit done.

Yes, the shit got done with lots of sleepless nights, lots of tears (once in front of a professor, not a high point in my academic career), traumatic reading assignments (read My Traitor's Heart and you will never see this world the same again... bawling, I tell you, baaaawling, Maggie knows what I'm talking about), but, nonetheless, at the end of the day, my shit got done. I had all my papers and my printer and my laptop on that desk and there was still room to set down a bottle of grape soda and some take out (thank you Kozmo.com, you are missed) and hunker down for some Sims and laughs with Maggie or wait for Katy to finish whipping up something amazing in the kitchen. My flamenco shoes and castanetas were probably thrown in there for good measure somewhere along the way. Then came graduation and the desk got a new mom, but it will always have a special place in my heart.

When I moved to Tokyo in 2006, with a blank canvas for an apartment, I wanted to create a writing space for myself. I'd never had a desk to write at; just a clear, clean, simple space, with perhaps a pretty view or something calm to look at, with sun, so I could sit down and type or scribble away like a wannabe Jane Austen or George Sands or Jo March or some other iconic female writer (not Virginia Woolf, she's too sad). Of course, the desk I'd had at college would've taken up practically my entire apartment in Tokyo, so I had to downsize a bit, but that was okay. How much space do you need to write... right? Apparently, I need a lot. All that other crap that I stowed on my giant desk has found residence on my mini-desk, to the point that the desk is just there to hold up the junk rather than to sit at and write.

I did okay with it for a while in the beginning. I even bought myself a little plant with pretty yellow flowers on it. But the plant soon died and the papers grew. There are piles of them now. I go through them every once in a while, but, at this point, I think they're winning.

I got rid of my TV recently and cleaned off my "dining table" (a.k.a. junk-holder-upper part deux), so now the top is clear and there are even pretty candles and candleholders on it... but underneath, the mess resides and heaves and grows and reproduces somehow. My "undertable" is a quasi-storage area for all the bags (duffle bags, weekend travel bags, travel backpacks, computer backpacks, etc. ... it's more than just a little reminiscent of Bubba and his shrimp list).

So, this is how I find myself, dear reader, late at night, hunched up in bed, with my little netbook nestled against my thighs and my hands and arms braced against my torso so that I can "comfortably" type this little post instead of elegantly or tragically or dramatically or at least comically sat at my little writing desk drafting prose that would bring tears. I must remember the words of encouragement given to me by my choreography teacher a few years ago when I was certain I'd never be able to finish choreographing my first dance without time in a big studio with real live dancers in front of me. She said (yes, Virginia, this is really true), "Remember, Paula Abdul choreographed her first dance for the Laker Girls in front of her bathroom mirror." I know it's funny and dated (and impossible not to link to the now infamous Paula, she of the "Straight Up" and "Opposites Attract" and, sadly, crazy silliness of American Idol), but, in a way, it's actually good advice.

Not having an ideal writing space isn't the end of the world and making it so is just an excuse for an excuse to not write. I don't know if I'll ever get that just right (write) writing space and desk that's clean and clear with a comfy chair and just waiting, jumping, bubbling, begging to help foster all my thoughts to come out of my head, through my arm and my hand, and onto a page (all this amazing writing would of course be put to journals for the benefit of posterity). In the meantime, if Paula could do it, then so can I.