This post is the result of a writing prompt on Writersdigest.com. Nothing profound. Just a little something to keep the writing process fresh.
You return home from work to find a Dear John letter on your kitchen table. Oddly enough, it’s from one of your favorite pieces of furniture. What does the letter say?
I’m sure that you’ll be surprised to read this, as I know your intentions have been good. As a matter of fact, they’ve been so good for so long that I allowed myself to get lost in the promise of what could be. Your hopes became my own. I knew that together we could accomplish so much. You spoke of your plans many times.
When I first came to your home, I heard you tell others how long you’d searched for me. Just for me. I had the “special something” that you hadn’t found in others. When you showed me to my own space in your home, you made sure that everything around me was set perfectly. You stood back to admire me, and you smiled. It was a genuine smile born of contentment.
Maybe that was the problem. Maybe you were content to simply find me.
I heard the rumblings from the others. They said it wasn’t rare. You did this kind of thing all the time. I would get used to it and become resigned to my fate. I didn’t want to resign myself to anything, I told them. I had done that before. It’s not a good feeling, and I believed your words enough to know that this time would be different. I hate being wrong.
This letter hurts. It hurts because I still believe that you can do everything you’ve planned. Your ability has never been questioned. The magic that cannot be given or taught is there. The only obstacle standing in your way is you.
I’ve been here for you from the minute you showed me to your study. The refuge you created for me is the stuff of legend. The bookshelf filled with works of all the great masters. The antique area rug giving the room a warmth that fosters creative inspiration. The reading chair in the corner. Your grandmother’s reading lamp. I was the last piece: the most important, you said. Our study, you called it. This is where great writing was to take place.
Well, the writing never happened. Too many things got in the way. So it’s my turn. I’m a writing desk. My name is derived from the fact that I was fashioned to give authors a platform on which they can transfer thought to paper. This never happened.
I love being a writing desk, but by definition, a writing desk that never assists in writing is simply a desk. While you may be content to hide behind your untested potential, I am not content to be just a desk. So I’m writing.
I am once again a Writing Desk, though not in the sense you intended.
You are missed,
The Writing Desk