The Typewriter and the Desk

The desk sits there in the room
Untouched
Bits of cardboard and plastic surround the desk from when it was unwrapped

The writer enters the room
This makes the seventh time in the past hour

The typewriter sits on the desk
And like the desk
It too goes untouched

The white page sticks out
Taunting

The writer stands in the doorway
He eyes the desk suspiciously
As if the desk was his enemy

A drought of ideas
This writer does not believe in "writer's block"
Says there is not such thing
Only an excuse

Yet here he stands
Hand held to his mouth
Deciding
But deciding what, exactly?

He leaves once again
Paces around the house
Only to return minutes later
Eighth time

Finally, he enters the room completely
He warily makes his way to his desk and sits stiffly in the chair
A stare down with an inanimate object

The writer fights with himself
This new desk was supposed to inspire him
Encourage him
But it was doing the opposite
As was the typewriter

The author stands again
A new determination gleaming in his eye

He reaches the corner where his notebook and pen had been thrown haphazardly
He picks them up and dusts them off

With one last look at the typewriter and the desk he leaves the room

Perhaps he was not ready for those things
Romantic ideas, really
The quintessential writer at a desk with a typewriter
No, he much preferred pen and paper

Maybe one day he would be ready for those things
But for now he is content with these things
And these things have work to do

© Dana L. 2013