I chose that title for the blog for a couple of different reasons. Mostly because of this one sentence… Wiki
“The title also refers to any author’s need for poetic license and the personal liberty to create art.”
My reasons have pretty much been remedied in the last seven months, one only yesterday.
When I bought my first desktop computer – which I still own – I had a desk in a corner of a sun room. I shared that desk and that computer with the ex-husband, even to the point of not having a separate email address. If you know me at all, or have learned anything about me in the last few months, that shit did not fly with me for very long. He got his own computer, but he eyeballed my desk every day, crinkling up his nose in blatant disgust. Eventually, I moved my desk into one of those large semi-walk-in closets with the folding doors. Doors closed, you could never tell that the wicked-wife had beads, pictures, notes, and other assorted insanity all around her desk. To get to my closet, I had to walk the gauntlet through his collection of music equipment. Yeah, he was a musician. *eyeroll* As long as I could close the doors and hide my inner freak from his hypocritical ass, his mouth stayed mostly closed. Mostly. But that also meant I wasn’t free to sit there when I chose.
We divorced in 1999 after ten years. The irony of it all is that same closet became his closet for his music equipment when he remarried. *smirk* Karma is lovely.
After that, my desk became the center of my various homes for about six years. My Interview with the Vampire poster never far away, The Axe ™ always at hand. A delicately twisted iron guitar covered in beads and masks hung where I could see it and remember collecting all those things in New Orleans. I could, and still can, tell you the story behind every bauble. When I bought my house, the desk moved from room to room. It had a sun room. Yes, the desk went there and finally stayed. I think that was part of the problem.
For a lot of reasons, some years back, I stopped writing for several years. During that time my desk went *poof*. Dismantled and mostly packed away, my imaginary friends went quiet. I shared the computer, when I bothered to use it, with the brand new husband. The only things of mine still there around the computer, other than little trinkets, were the poster, the guitar, and The Axe ™. Those I didn’t put away.
Already long story short, one day my imaginary friends woke up. I started visiting the computer more often. I bought a new laptop. Now I needed a desk. Needed … a desk.
I am not “normal”, thank you. I did not go out and simply get a “desk”. I bought an upright piano that had been converted into a desk. The keys are gone, the writing surface is where they once were, but the wires and other guts remain. It weighs a solid half-ton. It … went into the sun room beside my old desk, which at that point was completely Bobby’s desk. I have a neurotic thing about people being behind me in general, but especially so when I write. It’s a trust thing. The desk was an epic fail. I returned to the living room chair, or the corner in the kitchen, which had become my new writing havens. Years pass.
When I decided to go whole-hog on the book, I told myself that I needed a desk. I needed my things around me again if I was going to seriously write. I needed my comfort zone back! I guess I also needed Bobby to see my freak flag fly and make sure he wasn’t going to crinkle his nose. When I started the book, he was crinkling a little as it was, would he get worse if I flew that flag too much?
I stayed hiding in the kitchen, with my back to the wall. Bobby’s crinkling faded, thank gods, and I wrote over sixty-thousand words.
Imagine that. I didn’t need my desk to write. But…. I still wanted it.
That piano desk’s wheels are so firmly dug into the hardwood floor now that the only way it was going to move was an earthquake. Well! Tried that! Seriously, there was a small quake a few months ago. It broke the ornamental concrete wall around my house. That desk didn’t move. Now what? I’m not going to go out and buy a freaking desk. I forget about it… sort of. New Year’s Eve, one of my neighbors about a half-mile away sat out a desk, well used, at their curb. I told Bobby that I wanted it. His nose crinkled. I panicked. Was it too much to ask?
We went and got the desk.
He even helped me firm it up with some well placed screws when I wanted the shelves removed from the hutch so I’d have more writing space. The one computer in the house with no wireless Internet has a monitor the size of a TV. I’d like to use that to try and fight the temptation of Facebook while I write. (Gods, I swear I will get a new monitor. Maybe the curb can help with that, too?) Needed the space, shelves gone. I have a desk.
Bobby’s crinkle was only because he figured a “curb desk” would be kinda’ beat up and I did sort of blurt the request out of the blue when he was concentrating on something else. It was more a ‘did you just grow six heads’ crinkle than a ‘freak’ crinkle. It is beat up, and I don’t care, I’m a few levels happier. He said he’d get me a brand new one for Xmas next year and I’d apparently be ecstatic. He’s more right than he knows.
It took me all afternoon New Year’s Day to move things around in the spare bedroom, The War Room, to where I could use the room and it still be a spare bedroom. Not because it was hard work, but because I was still afraid. Scared to death the crinkle would curl up on his lip for real as I set out things that are eclectic at best and special to no one but me. The very last things to move were the poster, the guitar and The Axe ™. My hands were shaking the whole time.
That was yesterday. He hasn’t said a word… and I haven’t been in the damned room since.
I’m sitting in the kitchen at my laptop while I write this, my back is not to the wall anymore. I noticed that change a few days ago. He just woke up and walked up behind me… and I let him.
Sometimes a blue curtain is just a blue curtain. Sometimes a desk is not a “desk”.
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