I have a box

I have nothing earth-shattering to say. What's bothering me most today is not having a desk, and having to sleep. Both of these issues annoy the fuck out of me.

I have a lovely kitchen table that my father made for us two years ago; it's 4 foot square, bordered in a light oak, with a cherrywood center. The damned thing even slides open to 8 X 4, it's fantastic. I'm terrified of scratching it, but I can't bear to use a tablecloth, it's just too beautiful to cover up. And it calms me just to look at it. It clears my head. Providing, of course, that all the miscellanea has been moved to... well, somewhere else.

I've set up shop here at the table over the last week. I haven't done much work on my own stuff for the last few days (the sickness and fatigue have just been too much) but still, it's been heartening to have a place I can call my own. But Brian comes back tomorrow night. And my evenings will once again be shared between my husband, my writing, and my need for sleep.

Remember in college when you could go for days without sleep? And when it finally caught up with you, sleeping for forty-eight hours was really no big deal? I miss the hell out of that. About a month ago, Aeryn asked me what I wanted for Christmas and I told her I wanted a superpower - the ability to function effectively on four hours of sleep a night. She looked at me kinda funny. "But Mom, you have to sleep!" she protested. "I know, sweetie," I said, "it's just that I wish I didn't have to."

So no, I don't have a desk. What I have is a cardboard box. It contains the Sanctuary ms, folders for different subjects (research, reading lists, one I call the editing-room floor), my journal, a few of my favorite pens, a highlighter, a pad of sticky notes and a box of paper clips. I include my mp3 player in my box although it's not usually kept there. It's critical, though, for blocking everything else out around me. Currently I'm listening to a lot of Hildegard von Bingen, a 12th century abbess who wrote chant mostly for women. Gorgeous stuff, really. Occasionally I'll throw in the Mozart Requiem just to wake up or freak myself out. The Dies Irae is spine-chilling no matter how many times I hear it.

Over winter break, I asked Aeryn to decorate the box for me. She got one side done - she and Brian pulled out old animal magazines and cut and pasted particularly cute ones on the box. It looks great. My favorite picture is the two baby mountain lions, but number two is a toss-up between the white sloth and the cat drinking coffee - both unnervingly apt, all things considered.

I've got a box because it's portable. I don't have the latest technology (to put it nicely; I don't want to anger the technology I do have) to use a laptop, and my old desk is in Brian's den which simply isn't conducive to writing paranormal romance.

I have a box; the box is what I've got. Other writers have done with much less. J.K. Rowling wrote most of The Sorcerer's Stone on legal pads wandering from coffee shop to coffee shop because her flat didn't have heat (or that's the story anyway and even if it's not true it's still inspiring). Thanks, Virginia, but I can do this with or without a room of my own.

So I suppose I'd better post this and get down to it. It's getting late, and it sure would be nice to finish this chapter before I totter off to bed.

~Andi