Hi Friends, 

This is your weekly edition of The Friday Five Hundred, which is a slice of my writerly life packaged in nuggets of Present, Past and Future in five hundred words or less. 

Present: I am writing to you from my new writing desk. It’s pristine white with drawers and brass recessed handles. There’s a matching book shelf opposite it, so that I can proudly display my books for zoom calls. As I moved over my items and knick knacks from an old console table to this new writing desk, I was grateful for the update. I realized this is the first time I have a writing desk and book shelf of my own.  

Past: About two years ago, I shared with my close friends that I want to be a Writer. One caring friend gifted me a leather journal and a mug that said, “I’m a Writer. You might be killed in a story.” The gift was well received but I was nowhere close to writing. It was a dream postponed. I needed to make it real and so I tried to create a space to write. It was challenging to find space in our two bedroom apartment with three kids and two adults (sometimes four when my parents-in-law visited).

I made space for a blank empty wall in the living room and one day drove to Home Goods. I looked for tables that would fit and found a charming console table with a teal swivel chair. Carrying it myself to the cashier and then loading it in my car, I felt such a rush. At home, I put the console table in the designated spot and christened it with my gifted mug that held pens and pencils within.

The following days, my new writing spot became a space for my kids to do their homework. It became a place for members of my family to eat their food. When I opened either of the two drawers, I found bills, receipts and assignments. It was not what I had envisioned as my individual writer’s space with physical reminders of my other roles and responsibilities slipping and enmeshing with my writing playground. I wrote anywhere else but on my make-shift Writer’s desk.