Squawk Radio

How does that saying go? A tidy desk is the sign of a sick mind? If the reverse is also true, then I must have the healthiest mind in the universe. ‘Cause my desk is about as untidy as it can be. So what does a working writer’s desk look like? you might be thinking. (Or, if you’re like me, you’re already thinking about what to have for lunch.) Here’s a description of mine.

It’s one of those tall ones, with a cubby-type thing on top of the desk, and a cabinet to the right of the keyboard. The very tippy top plays host to my warnings and celebrations (for lack of a better description). Probably because those two things are most important in my writerly experience.

The warnings consist of two framed, calligraphied edicts. The one on the left is a passage from the TAO TE CHING: “Fill your bowl to the brim and it will spill. Keep sharpening your knife and it will blunt. Chase after money and secruity and your heart will never unclench. Care about people’s approval and you will be their prisoner. Do your work and step back. The only path to serenity.” On the right hand side is my own writing philosophy: “Just Don’t Think About It.” The celebrations consist of my trophies from RT and the Colorado Romance Writers and a dump header for JUST LIKE A MAN. There’s also an empty bottle of Taittinger champagne that was emptied after signing my first big contract, and a red feather boa I won at a recent reader event winding through it all.

On the cubby shelves above my computer are four sections. The first houses my writer sources--dictionary, thesaurus, Random House WORD MENU (my absolute fave resource), name books, ELEMENTS OF STYLE, etc.--and my environmental CDs, to which I will sometimes listen when I work. (I especially love the thunderstorm and the sailboat one.)

Another section holds framed photos of my loved ones. Another section is my spiritual cache and has an ivory Buddha, a pewter Winnie-the-Pooh, a plastic rendition of the fairy from Bullwinkle’s “Fractured Fairy Tales” with her bent wand pointing toward my computer, a heart carved from rose quartz, a voodoo doll and Mr. Right When You Need Him, who, when you squeeze him, says encouraging things like, “Have you lost weight?” and “Why don’t I take you shoe shopping?” I love Mr. Right When You Need him.

The last section is also kind of spiritual, but in a more writer-specific way. It’s here that I keep all the mementos of special writer events. A piece of a sand-dollar broken four ways among four friends. A ring shaped like a tiara given to me by another Squawker. A little wooden frog prince my husband gave to me when I was a teenager who only had dreams of writing romance. A flower-shaped metal box holding two glass beads that represent two wishes--mine and someone else’s--only one of which came true. But I still need to protect them both.

The main part of the desk is less interesting, perhaps because that’s where the actual WORK occurs. There’s my iMac, of course, and the usual desk stuff--mug from the now-closed Hawley-Cooke Booksellers (my fave independent) filled with pencils, pens, rulers, scissors, etc. The chocolate calendar a Squawker sent me for Christmas (which I notice is running about a week behind), a plastic tray with Marlon Brando from “The Wild One” that acts as a catch-all (and BOY, does it catch ALL), a coaster from a Michigan conference that says “Romance, what a novel idea!” that plays host to hot tea in the winter, ice water in the summer. There’s a little basket that always seems to have some chocolate in it. There’s also the usual clutter of papers, business cards, cover flats, notes, books to be read, and stuff that needs to be filed.

So I figure I’ve got everything covered on my desk. (And it pretty much covers my desk.) My desk fills my spiritual needs, my intellectual needs, my professional needs, my nutritional needs, my recreational needs. Really, there’s no reason for me to ever have to get up. So why is it so hard to say seated here and get work done?