The quest for my own personal library….

So every person that lives and dies to write, the type of person say that has a favorite pencil or pen brand (The Ticonderoga and the Pilot G-2 10), the kind of person whose dream is a library of their very own, filled with books and oak and the soft natural paper that makes for ink rolling words together like paint drops…Every person that knows that dream well will understand my excitement today. 

I FOUND THE DESK!  Perhaps not THE desk, as I can’t afford THE desk, but I found my FOR NOW desk, and I’m buying it this week from some woman in Germany that lives in my town.  Point is, I finally found the centerpiece for the office I’ve been meaning to create since I got here.  It’s number 16 of “Things to do while I’m 30” and I’m so excited at the thought that I might actually do this item!

Since coming here, especially during my Lady of Leisure era, I thought long and hard about my space I needed to create so that I could be creative, I could get some writing done and I could do it in silence, or at the very least, engulfed by music that fit each mood, maybe with a glass of wine nearby, with all of my favorite books within sight.  And I think it might happen. 

You can’t create a writer’s nook without the centerpiece, the desk.  I knew there was no sense in even trying.  I need a desk.  I need something that has pencils and pens, an abundance of them, in little cups, where my little fingers can reach them with ease.  I need my laptop to have a corner on this desk and I need to be able to see my pencil sharpener nearby.  I need my top ten books stacked neatly in one corner and maybe a framed picture and I need a plant.  I also need a stapler even though I won’t staple anything, and pictures hung on the walls, a rug under my feet so I can run my toes back and forth over it when I’m frustrated.  I need a chair that tilts back so I can lean and stick a pencil in my mouth and ponder about why the hell I can’t come up with adjectives that are colorful or phrases that are powerful or why characters never come out on paper as vividly as they live in my head.  I need that. 

I also need a chez lounge in the corner, maybe near by drink station, so I can pour myself a glass of pino and lay back like I’m on a shrink’s couch, counseling myself about why it’ll be ok that I suck as a writer on any particular day of the week.  And I need a trash can, because I tend to write things on paper, not type, and I want it to be filled with bad ideas that no one should ever be subjected to read aloud or have swimming in their head.  I might need a trash can bigger than my desk. 

But anyway, I saw this desk, this little gem on a poster tacked to the “for sale” wall at the grocery store and I knew it might be the one.  I held out on getting an IKEA number, and I mean no harm in saying this, but no real writer writes shit on an IKEA desk.  I mean you, can, sure.  But do you want to?  Never.  Writing is meant to be done on solid wood, something with four legs, something that’s sturdy and supportive and has a purpose.  Fuck, really, is it possible to write words that are supposed to mean something to people you’ve never met on something that moonlights as “ALVE “or “MIKAEL”???  No, you can’t.  I mean, of course you can.  I write on planes and buses and while lying on my stomach in the grass, at happy hours on napkins and on old business cards while bored in work meetings.  But I need a desk.  A desk means accomplishment, or at least the road to.  So, the desk featured above is a close match, except with straight legs, and darker wood.

And so I need a chair.  A comfy, spin myself around, lean back with my feet up, ass not falling asleep, deep cushioned, sucks you in chair. 

That, and I need to clean the room I’m making into my office.  Here are two “before” pictures.  Both will clearly point out my lack of personal organizing skills, my laziness, and the fact that we don’t throw things out or unpack when we move, we just stack and toss in piles.  And so I have my weekend project!  I’m going to clean the shit out, maybe paint, but the walls are weird so I’m not sure.  I need to go to IKEA and get a rug, position the desk, hang some pics, sharpen the pencils, set up the laptop, set up my journal collection, my favorite books and the dog bed, for Moxie, of course.  Then I’ll hang a sign on the door–something like, “Pulitzer or Bust”, toss some pillows in the corner (for napping, clearly) and step back and see where the project stands. 

I really cannot wait.  Of all the projects I take on that never get finished–mostly that stupid scarf I started two years ago that’s still half done—I really am so excited to start, work on and COMPLETE this one!

So yay for weekend projects.   That being said, I’m slightly annoyed about the fact that this has nothing to do with the Paris update I promised, but oh well.  Sometimes I let the excitement get in the way. 

Now, back to watching Project Runway Australia with Chris.  It’s one of his favorite shows and yes, he even says things like, That’s so fashion forward, Heath, in a very lispy, very entertaining voice that I’m not always sure is a joke.  Ahahahha, true story and I love it. 

Make it work, gang.  Make it work.

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