The first thing I noticed was the beautiful oak wood. Antique, darkened with time, and absolutely stunning. I loved it from the first time I saw it.
Everything about the desk drew me in. Elegant brass drawer handles, with perfect patina. Simple Victorian style trim, nine drawers, four for each side, and one in the center. There were soft scratches on the desktop, evidence of its antique use.
I was far from the first to put my words to writing on it. With good care, I’ll be far from the last. I hope the next man cares as much as I do. People don’t care anymore, or not as often as they should.
The first story I ever wrote on that desk wasn’t much to look at. It’s still sitting in the bottom left drawer, a blue composition notebook, brimming with horrible prose. Evidence of mediocrity.
I had been experimenting with science fiction at the time, two topics which I quickly found out I knew nothing about. But I FELT like a writer sitting at that desk. Inking out page after page, line after line, word after word, until my fingers ached from holding a pen into the late night.
I was given a bankers lamp to match it, it looked like something out of the 60’s or 70’s. It complimented the desk well, much like my copy of Robert Frosts poems, bound in a deep green leather with gold decorative inlays.
The final pieces of my writerly portrait were two beautiful pens, handcrafted by an elderly man from my town. My wife bought them for me at the county fair, gifts for my birthday. She always buys me the most thoughtful gifts.
All this collection, these beautiful things, and not a publication to my name. Hours spent, drafting and writing, and drawing and editing. The creation of unique worlds, only to be thrown out.
I felt like a writer, sitting at that beautiful desk. If only I loved what I wrote, half as much as I loved writing it.
Maybe someday I will.
Maybe tomorrow.
