It’s a nice desk, really. We inherited it from the previous owners of our previous house, who were moving out of state and wanted to ditch as much of the furniture as possible. That’s also how we acquired a vintage-y shelving system and the fireplace tools, though we did draw the line at the piano.
The desk has the usual three little drawers, one big drawer, with pretty curved handles. It has room for my mini filing cabinet and my laptop and various assorted papers and pictures of the kids. It is just about everything you could ask of a desk, and I never sit at it. Because the thing is, I’m lazy.
I don’t like sitting up at a desk. I never did. Given the choice I’d rather recline, curl up, sit cross-legged on the floor, stretch out and take up an entire couch. If I’d had the option in school, I would’ve leaned back and put my feet up. If any job ever had let me sit anywhere but at a desk, I would’ve been ecstatic. My work ethic is impeccable; I just want to work comfortably. Is that so wrong?
The other problem with the desk is that the papers multiply, possibly behind my back, or when I’m sleeping. So periodically the desk is buried under mountains of who-knows-what-but-it’s-probably-important, and then the mere sight of the desk is enough to cause guilt spasms, and I avoid it so that I don’t have to clean it. I’m not saying this is productive. But then, neither is cleaning off the desk when I’m supposed to be writing. Filing papers is not what you’d call a creative sort of act, unless you’re filing them in paper-airplane form. Which is tempting.
So the end result of all this is, I’m sitting in bed with my laptop. It’s perfectly comfortable. It’s not covered in papers. It has pillows. It’s my kind of desk.
Where do you write? Are you more considerate of your desk than I am?