The three-inch-long smooth, dolphin-shaped basalt stone I picked up on Back Beach in Bernard, Maine a few years ago sits as a paperweight on the open page of a pocket-size Moleskine 2014 hard cover diary in Antwerp blue that was a gift from a friend. Just to the right is the screen of my big old HP desktop computer. While I boot up, my eyes go to a strip of paper with a typewritten quote taped to the top of the screen’s plastic border: “To write well, you must be able to hold your finger in the fire.” Dylan Landis (author of “Normal People Don’t Live Like This.”)
I taste the memory of yesterday’s hibachi coals in the scalding black Komodo Dragon coffee, but smell hints of spiced Chai from the dregs of a mug still sitting on my desk from yesterday afternoon. A stack of old New Yorker and Poet and Writer magazines supports a messy pile of the first 112 pages of my novel in progress. The last sentence so far, “Claire tied a piece of surgical rubber around her upper arm, and picked up the syringe,” stares me in the face. An M. Hohner Blues Harp sits in its case beside the stack of magazines and papers.
I inherited the desk from my husband, who brought it home when he retired 17 years ago. It’s a big hunk of ugly: L-shaped, with skinny tubular aluminum-looking legs, sliding black panels over maple drawers, and a surface big as a door that we covered with matte black laminate. Books are scattered around to the left of the omputer: “The Language of Fiction: a writer’s stylebook” by Brian Shawver, “3 a.m. Epiphany” by Brian Kiteley, Jeff Vandermeer’s “Wonderbook”; “The Art of Time in Memoir” by Sven Birkerts, Didion’s “Slouching Towards Bethlehem.” Scraps of half-written paper everywhere. Stacks of old notebooks on the steel blue carpet.
Birds fly by the window in a downward trajectory toward the nearly empty, raccoon-raided feeder below. Shadows on the tree trunks outside my second story window slip down and puddle on the ground, melting away in the bright sun. I hear the drone of small planes, the icemaker dropping cubes, water running through pipes that tells me Buck is up, and the dull, rhythmic popping sounds of a pistol-shooting neighbor half a mile away.