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Desk with a View: The Writing Desk Saga _ Part One

5/31/2014

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The Writing Desk Saga (see "A Cat with a View" and "A Jewel of a View" for the sequels)

I seem to be good for several things including holding paper, pens and books of all flavors. For providing storage. A place to lay the newspaper. I am my writer’s old oak desk. We do not speak, but how I wish I could. She sits at me in the early morning sometimes with a laptop, sometimes with a pad. I hold her glasses, coffee mug and phone. And I support her as she writes for hours.

Today is the same. She hums as she sets up on my surface, brushing off pesky cat hair that has accumulated on me from a nuisance named “Sonny” and gently scolds this beast who’s blobbing out next to me on his feline post. She stares out the window at obnoxious birds who race by to find a perch in the trees prior to scooping down to the feeder before another has a chance. She mentions how she loves the old oak outside despite being crooked from age and the yard of green which causes her nothing but hours of labor. And she pets the useless, long-haired dog that loves to brush up against me, half the time with a wet nose that on a good morning doesn’t land on my leg. It’s downright inexcusable for all of these distractions to be bothering my writer at such important times, but alas, I cannot help, or do, or say anything. I am her desk. I am the unseen, unappreciated support, but I would rather be nothing else.

She plugs away at her characters and settings for an hour after things settle down and is now in full concentration mode. Her writing is going well. She’s living life through her characters, acting out scenes and feverishly jotting down lines. She’s talking to herself in jubilation, as if defendant Johnny Goldchild is pacing in the room or young Emma Fairsworth is running around. These are my favorite times.  

But as usual, this wonderfully serene time has to be interrupted by a cat paw that has just rested on my side and provides a perfect catapulting position for landing onto my shiny top only to bother my writer. With its purrs and cuddles, that puff ball Sonny ends up interrupting the flow and ruining the blow by blow scenes that are now nothing but a blur. And what does my writer do? Pets him once again. It is quite beyond me how these forced break times are acceptable by her, but it never fails that she inevitably and disgustingly baby talks him and lets his oversized body lay on mine with a tail whipping around like a viper ready to damage my almost pristine 50-year-old surface. I may have a ding or two on my curves, but overall, this old lady is in good shape.

Thank goodness, eventually, she tires of the cat and shoos him off so we can get back to business, wiping his hair onto the floor again that she’ll have to clean up later. She’ll then usually go back into her world for a few more hours, but now it seems she’s lost it. Her elbows are on me with her head in her hands, trying to find the characters again. When she gives up, she peers out the window. She sips on her coffee. She calls the dog. But she never notices me.  The one that is the old standby. The one she leans on. Her one constant.

I wish I could tell her to keep going. To not be discouraged. That it will all come together like it always does. To not listen to those annoying birds or be distracted by the view or the pets. But I know she’ll never hear me. All I can do is stand strong, holding her up when she needs it, providing support for her elbows, arms and various beverages.

She gets up from her chair and I know she’s going to leave. She looks out the window, then to the pets. She grabs her coffee and glasses with a sigh. Typical behavior for when my writer is frustrated. But then, something happens that never happens. She pauses before me and runs her fingers across the front of my surface. She grins ever so slightly and says, “Thank you, my old friend.” She finally sees me.

As she walks away, I can’t help but think better of that tub-o-lard cat and maybe his slight usefulness. After all, he’s just trying to comfort her, I suppose. And I guess I can see her attraction to our beautiful backyard and the nature that goes along with it, though I could live without the relentless chirps and thoughtless singing. But, they get her for only short moments in time. I, on the other hand, have the honor of her leaning on me every morning. And I will always be here to support her.

——————————--

I bet you will never look at your desk the same again. Next time, you might want to consider giving it a hug. ;-) Sandie



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The Haunting Past of Tall Grass: A Memorial Day Dedication

5/26/2014

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My good friend is no longer moving. Blood is dripping from the left side of his head, and his ear is detached and dangling downward by a strip of pink skin. The tall grass cradles him as it sways in the wind. He stares past me but I pound on his chest anyway to revive him until I finally resign to the reality that he's gone. How can this be? We've been together since the beginning of this war. Sobs from deep in my gut cause me to fall onto him and suddenly I don't give a shit about the chaos that surrounds me anymore. I'm not going to get out of Vietnam alive anyway. Everyone can go to hell.

Hands grab at my feet and pull me backward until I fall into the brown and red-swirled water of a long and narrow trench. Blood, rotting flesh and human waste thickens the water that's covering my legs, making me wrench. I look down the line. There's no words or emotions from the other soldiers firing at the unseen. Their stares are different than my friend's. Fierce. Strong. Alive. 

A soldier hits me in the back with his elbow and pushes me against the muddy wall. A bullet pings the top of the helmet next to me and flies off into the distance, leaving the soldier's head unscathed. I don't know him, and I don't want to. All I want is my family who are counting on me to get home. I hope they will forgive me for not being able to write.

I lift up my gun and start firing with the same ferocity as my neighbor not out of want but out of need. We have to win this war. After all, everyone home is counting on us. Supporting us. They care about us. We can't let them down. Despite the horror of watching my friend killed by an armored child of about eight years old, I can't let this place kill me too. So I keep firing. 

Five years later...

It's been a long, horrible road but I'm back and about to step on my home soil again. I walk down the stairs that are leading me away from all signs of the past atrocities. All I want to do is hug my family. My hat lifts up into my hand as if in glee with the wind. The mixture of asphalt and freshly cut grass permeates in the air. How I've missed these smells. 

A gooey substances hits my chest from where I don't know as we walk toward the cheering crowd. I look at the shiny, brown mush closer. More smacks me on my neck and smears across my chin. And the pungent smell makes me stop short. The closest crowd is not happy to see us. They are throwing feces at us.

I stand proud despite the odor. Family embraces are awkward as their noses wrinkle against my smell. I can't blame them. I stink. Not just of feces but of war. I was fighting for my country. My flag. Our freedom. Now, all I'll be fighting are the flashbacks and fear of seeing my friend in that tall grass again. 

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Please remember and support our soldiers. They fight the enemy during the wars and themselves afterwards.

This is dedicated to my uncle who was on the front line in Vietnam. I'm sure this will resonate, though, with anyone from any country. 

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A Petal in Hand: A Dedication to my Husband

5/2/2014

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On this day, 27 years ago, I stood behind closed wooden doors, waiting anxiously for them to open and hoping I wouldn’t falter or stumble.  That the next steps I would take would be into a new life that would bring me peace, love and protection.  And as I waited, my hands shaking, a little white petal fell from my bouquet and slowly floated back and forth, until I caught it ever so gently in my hand.

One door opened and eyes peered back at me for a second to make sure I was ready.  After a nod from the doorman, the second door opened wide, and I was engulfed in the grandness of the space.  The red velvet and wooden benches.  The tall ceilings and brightly colored stained windows.  The onlooking of friends and family.  I grabbed my father’s hand tightly, and he squeezed my hand back and said, “Are you ready?” And I whispered, “Yes.”  

The music started and the daisies trembled with every step I took down the aisle that day, until I saw your eyes and your smile.  And at that moment, I didn’t care anymore if I faltered or stumbled.  Or tried new steps and failed.  Or let go of the one hand I knew all of my life to hold another.  To hold yours.

And this is the way it has been since the afternoon of May 2, 1987.  I’ve never worried about being me.  I’ve never worried about where we’d go.  Because I have always known that just like the little white petal floating safely from its home that you would always be there to support me ever so gently, holding my hand.  And I look forward to holding your hand for the rest of my life.

Your forever loving wife, Sandie

Dedicated to Charlie

May 2, 2014

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    Sandie Will is a multi-award-winning, psychological thriller novelist who lives in Tampa Bay, Florida, and works as a geologist by day.

    She has been married to her husband, Charlie, for over 30 years and they have two sons. Her favorite place to write is in her back room “treehouse” in the arms of an old oak.

    AWARDS & RECOGNITION:

    The Caging at Deadwater Manor

    2020 Top Shelf Magazine Awards: First Place - Young Adult Horror
    2018 Florida Writers Association Royal Palm Literary Award: First Place - Young Adult/New Adult Fiction
    2017 Readers' Favorite Book Awards: Honorable Mention - YA Horror
    2017 #1 AMAZON'S HOT NEW RELEASES


    The Takings

    2020 Florida Writers Association Royal Palm Literary Award: Finalist in Blended Fiction

    The Replacings
    2021 #1 AMAZON'S HOT NEW RELEASES


    She can be found on Twitter as @SandieWillBooks and @RockHeadScience, Instagram @sandie_will, as well as her Facebook page at Sandie Will, Author.  

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