The Office

I have an office. For the past [embarrassing length of time], I’ve been unable to easily enter my office due to a) boxes of my father’s papers and b) my own crap. I am not a hoarder. Minus my father’s papers, I don’t have an excessive amount of anything in the office, I’m just bad at putting things away. (Some people might say I have an excessive number of books, but I know you guys won’t see it that way.) Let’s just say I have no wall space and extra insulation.

I took Friday afternoon to muck it out, and Sunday afternoon to finish the job. I now have an in box and an out box. According to (I believe) Dr. Edward Hallowell, it’s good for the ADD types to have both, and to open mail right away, and clear the in box on the first and fifteenth of every month. We’ll see.

I have a little drafting table that I bought off Craigslist. It slants, and the philosophy is that I should be unable to put anything on it but my computer. I proved that wrong. But now it is completely empty. I can  easily lay my hands on stamps, a pad of post-its, the  tiny panda bears my mother once climbed down to get from the train tracks after I dropped it off a bridge as a kid, any of my poetry books, my folders from grad school, and the printer.

I was reminded how much I love my office, with its painted dark purple floor, the science books I try to read, the intellectual interests they represent, my style manuals, the card [blog friend redacted] sent me when she finished her dissertation, and  the picture of my dad drinking a beer in the front yard and me holding on to his leg (as a toddler, my hair was approximately the color of Killian’s Red).

What spaces represent you?


6 responses to “The Office

  1. That’s so weird—I spent Saturday moving my writing space from the dining room table to my roll top desk, which was buried in books, notes, drawer manuscripts, dust, family photos, and three years worth of “I’ll just put it on your desk, okay?”

    Feels comfortable, though. Maybe I can write there again. . .

  2. The house we’re moving into is short on charm in many respects, but it had this selling point: a perfect writing room. Fireplace, big window, and completely off the kitchen-bedroom-family room footpath. I will finally have a place to write that is not my own goddamn bed.

    • That’s the best. I can’t even tell you how much having an office improves things. A door that closes. It makes me weep with embarrassment at how long it took me to shovel it out.

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