Writing Desks

And what they’ve taught me about love

Years ago I stayed in a relationship for far too long. The kind where you make yourself smaller continuously, until your needs don’t matter anymore. For a long time I wanted to get a writing desk, and it was always a problem. It didn’t “fit in” anywhere in his beautifully decorated apartment. So, I propped a laptop up on a pillow and convinced myself it was no big deal.

When I moved out, the first piece of furniture I bought after a mattress to sleep on was a writing desk. Oh, I loved that thing. It was recycled from an Indian sewing machine. I wrote hundreds of thousands of words on it. It was so much more than just a desk! It was a symbol of freedom and self-love. Every time I sat at it I remembered that I have needs, and that I can take care of them myself. That I’m worth taking care of.

3 years ago I moved out of that apartment, sold the desk, and became a gypsy writer. I’ve made train tables and upside-down buckets my desks. I’ve learned that I can be flexible in how I satiate my needs, but that I can’t ignore them ever again.

When I moved to Puerto Escondido in January it was because I felt like I could write here. I had a little writing station in my apartment, part of a cheap plastic shelving unit, and I worked. I fell in love with my little town, and then with a very big…