The Writing Desk Saga
(Sequel to previous blog posts: "Desk with a View," "Cat with a View," and "Jewel of a View")
The birds are loud this morning as they race by the line of windows in front of my desk. I’m supposed to be writing, but I can’t help but watch them soar through the branches until they find just the right spot for breakfast. The daily positioning for a strategic landing onto the bird feeder has begun and the cardinals are antsy. They don't like to share. In fact, they act like they own the place.
I watch for a few more minutes until I force myself to abandon this distraction and get down to business. My favorite pad in the right drawer. My favorite pen in the middle. My laptop positioned for internet searches. I can’t help but notice how well the shine of the desktop has never faded after all these years. There’s a few dings on the corners and a few marks on the legs, but overall, this old gal is in pretty good shape. The desk, I mean. The first time I saw it was at a little antique shop, and its tag held the words "writing desk." I’m not sure how old it is, but it’s longer than most desks. I like this extra length for storing book upon book, note pads, and a little jar filled with paper strips of handwritten memories for the year.
Besides the birds, the view from the window holds generous-sized scrub oaks with long, hanging moss from numerous branches of various heights. Since I’m on the second floor, it feels like I’m up in a treehouse, and my favorite view is the flowerbed of red, pink and white pentas with a splattering of pink hibiscus. A faux brick border winds around it and a stately bench sits waiting for me. The focal point, though, is the white birdbath and pedestal with a hint of green.
When I outline my stories, I’m usually quite focused, my pen not hesitating much on the page. I'm not sure who the characters are and aren’t, and I'm not sure where I’m going. So, concentration is essential, especially right now, since I'm in the thick of determining who the blonde guy is that's been following me around lately. And then in a millisecond, or a minute, I’m not sure, my intense concentration is interrupted by yet another distraction.
Mocha.
Not just any cat. This is one who is quite taken, even obsessed, with pens. And to my chagrin, today her play pen has to be mine. She thinks she’s pretty sneaky as her butt wiggles prior to pouncing onto my desk and trying to grab my pen quickly, but I’m onto her just as fast and pull it away with a swift second hand to assist her onto the floor.
But she's relentless. Mocha returns for another try and so begins the onslaught of claws on my pen until I finally give up and move her to her favorite bath mat so I can have some peace.
I immerse myself back into the outline, still somewhat on track, and jot down a few more lines. The cardinals chirp after every letter. The cat whimpers pitifully from behind. The clock clicks with every second. I grab my head into my hands, trying to shut out the noise that’s sidetracking me, but I soon give up once I
notice a pair of cardinals looking back at me. I watch them as they bounce back and forth on a branch, their heads turning to each side to see me, or more probably, their reflection on the outside window. The female flies to the birdbath, followed by the male, and he watches and lets out a single chirp every few seconds while she bathes. He’s not directly near her, but he’s watching from afar, as if he’s protecting her. He lets her finish before he indulges which is opposite of bird feeder time where he barrels over her to eat. I’m glad for this moment to see their relationship. To slow down time to their time. And I suddenly realize that I haven’t really stopped brainstorming at all. I just have new material.
Guess I'll go let the cat out.
(Sequel to previous blog posts: "Desk with a View," "Cat with a View," and "Jewel of a View")
The birds are loud this morning as they race by the line of windows in front of my desk. I’m supposed to be writing, but I can’t help but watch them soar through the branches until they find just the right spot for breakfast. The daily positioning for a strategic landing onto the bird feeder has begun and the cardinals are antsy. They don't like to share. In fact, they act like they own the place.
I watch for a few more minutes until I force myself to abandon this distraction and get down to business. My favorite pad in the right drawer. My favorite pen in the middle. My laptop positioned for internet searches. I can’t help but notice how well the shine of the desktop has never faded after all these years. There’s a few dings on the corners and a few marks on the legs, but overall, this old gal is in pretty good shape. The desk, I mean. The first time I saw it was at a little antique shop, and its tag held the words "writing desk." I’m not sure how old it is, but it’s longer than most desks. I like this extra length for storing book upon book, note pads, and a little jar filled with paper strips of handwritten memories for the year.
Besides the birds, the view from the window holds generous-sized scrub oaks with long, hanging moss from numerous branches of various heights. Since I’m on the second floor, it feels like I’m up in a treehouse, and my favorite view is the flowerbed of red, pink and white pentas with a splattering of pink hibiscus. A faux brick border winds around it and a stately bench sits waiting for me. The focal point, though, is the white birdbath and pedestal with a hint of green.
When I outline my stories, I’m usually quite focused, my pen not hesitating much on the page. I'm not sure who the characters are and aren’t, and I'm not sure where I’m going. So, concentration is essential, especially right now, since I'm in the thick of determining who the blonde guy is that's been following me around lately. And then in a millisecond, or a minute, I’m not sure, my intense concentration is interrupted by yet another distraction.
Mocha.
Not just any cat. This is one who is quite taken, even obsessed, with pens. And to my chagrin, today her play pen has to be mine. She thinks she’s pretty sneaky as her butt wiggles prior to pouncing onto my desk and trying to grab my pen quickly, but I’m onto her just as fast and pull it away with a swift second hand to assist her onto the floor.
But she's relentless. Mocha returns for another try and so begins the onslaught of claws on my pen until I finally give up and move her to her favorite bath mat so I can have some peace.
I immerse myself back into the outline, still somewhat on track, and jot down a few more lines. The cardinals chirp after every letter. The cat whimpers pitifully from behind. The clock clicks with every second. I grab my head into my hands, trying to shut out the noise that’s sidetracking me, but I soon give up once I
notice a pair of cardinals looking back at me. I watch them as they bounce back and forth on a branch, their heads turning to each side to see me, or more probably, their reflection on the outside window. The female flies to the birdbath, followed by the male, and he watches and lets out a single chirp every few seconds while she bathes. He’s not directly near her, but he’s watching from afar, as if he’s protecting her. He lets her finish before he indulges which is opposite of bird feeder time where he barrels over her to eat. I’m glad for this moment to see their relationship. To slow down time to their time. And I suddenly realize that I haven’t really stopped brainstorming at all. I just have new material.
Guess I'll go let the cat out.
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