Once upon a time there was a desk. It was a well-made desk, constructed of real wood and hard nails. Its panels were not constructed of particle board and glued together in China. It was not sold at Wal-Mart. No, this desk was the real deal. And this is its unexpected story.
Its past is shrouded in mystery. Perhaps it sat in a fancy foyer in a mansion, and each day the mail, full of good news and bad, was laid upon it. It could have served in a little girl’s room…a place of reflection where a growing girl could diary her hopes and dreams. It could have been in the apartment of a young woman, a strong support for her laptop while she searched for jobs. God alone knows where it came from and what purpose it served.
“I AM A WRITER!” The words came flying out of my mouth and took me by surprise. I was taking my morning walk and talking with God in the cool of the day and bloop! Out popped those words. “Me? A writer?” I questioned. I might as well have said that I was a fireman or a fisherman or a pro basketball player.
Well, why not a writer? I write, don’t I?
But the thing is, I’ve always said that I wasn’t good at writing. I am more the STEM (Science, Technology, Engineering and Math) girl. In high school, I excelled in Calculus and Physics and Chemistry but struggled in English. Like, the worst grade that I made in high school was in English. The math and science concepts gelled in my mind like flies to flypaper but words and grammar and poetry always alluded me. They still do. Seriously.
Don’t ask me to analyze a poem. I’d rather have five root canals without novocaine.