In the corner of the Eyrie is my little white school desk. You know the sort. Standalone, wooden, an angled lid that lifts to reveal the contents of a stationery hoarder. Bottles of ink and dozens of crisp new notebooks and pencil cases from when I was at primary school and paperclips and staples and USBs hidden in tins. I love that desk!
The desk was sitting on the footpath outside an antique shop in one of the little towns along the Hume Highway as we drove to Canberra. It was back in the years when we slowed to drive through towns that have long since been bypassed. As front seat passenger I could see the desk clearly as we drove past. The $10 price tag was large enough to read, my eyes lit up, in less than five minutes I had made Ian turn the car around and the desk was mine. We found space for it in the back seat and neither of us commented on how much it obscured our rear vision. It was coming home with me no matter what. I also remember that it cost me more than $80 to get the paint to repair it but as far as I’m concerned it remains a bargain $10 desk. Every cent well spent.
The desk found a first home in the corner of our lounge room, tucked behind the couch in the light of the tall front windows. There I set up my tiny Netbook, the only computer small enough to fit and be hidden away when not in use. I studied there, wrote letters, kept my diaries, played with short stories that I submitted to the ABC and saw appear online for the first time (such a thrill!). I burned a little candle and played my favourite music. In front of it is a mahogany painted chair carved in the old fashioned style. The seat is red velvet. My nan bought that chair for me for my 21st birthday. I rarely sit at it anymore as it has been usurped by my bigger Florence desk. Nan’s name was Florence, it is an unintentional yet perfect coincidence that makes this desk somehow meant for me. I don’t sit on the mahogany chair anymore but the crochet rug she made now keeps me warm as I sit and work.
For years I could only write at my ‘special’ desk. The very act of lighting that candle and pulling out my chair was enough to transition me into the quiet focus I needed to be able to do my favourite things. When I sat at that desk I felt invisible from everyone else in the house. It was as if a cone of silence (remember Max and the Chief on Get Smart?) lowered over me. Interesting – those were the years of childrearing and the only way I could have written a full sentence during those years would have been in a cone of silence that kept sound out, not in.
Thankfully times have changed and I am no longer so restrictive in where I work. I am coming home to find there are places conducive to creativity everywhere. Right now I am sitting on the floor with a lap desk, my two dogs curled up snoring behind me on the couch I’m leaning against. I’ve begun to pick up my pen sitting propped up in bed with a cup of coffee by my side, an illicit late riser after so many years of being up before first light. When we camp I set up in my fold out chair and lean on whatever I can find to support my book. I’ve sat cross legged on a stump in the bush at the top of Mount Franklin and on a rock placed seemingly just for me at Leanganook overlooking the Harcourt Valley. My new and unexpected favourite is in the back of my Kia Carnival. I climb into the backseat where I have a lap desk, a quilt and a cushion, and there I sit in my private cocoon and write in full view of anyone who thinks to look in. Nobody does. A real cone of silence!
There is a beautiful photo of Oliver Sacks sitting at the top of a mountain with his yellow legal pad and pencil on his lap as he writes whatever thoughts must be urgently noted down mid hike. I often think of him and of so many other writers who admit to carrying their pen and notebook with them everywhere. It is a common enough wisdom – there is nothing worse than being unable to capture an idea when it appears for, as Liz Gilbert reminds us, ideas don’t always wait until you are ready for them and they are just as likely to head off to find a writer who is ready right now to welcome them with open arms. Yes, I adore sitting at my desk, lighting a cinnamon candle, picking up my pen or opening Tallulah (my laptop, you can meet her another time). But even more than that, I am loving coming home to finding that there is a place to write everywhere I go. I just need to look.