I stand here on my lunch break with the warmest breeze my city has had this year caressing my face, street lamps in various stages of working order, some as blinding as the sun, others flickering with the light’s housing hanging by a single screw, waiting for the next hoodlum with a shoe or strong gust of wind to send it to the ground, shattering. This is my desk, the parking lot and street corners of your nondescript neighborhood megamart. My writing utensils, my thumb and phone.
I don’t do well with desks, and I tend to be more inspired in the middle of my nights of manual labor. By the time my novel is finished, I will have a book that was almost completely written using the ‘Pages’ word processor on my iPhone.
Time’s up, back to the mindless work that gives me so much time to think. Before I go, let me invite you to tell me about your desk; is it an abstract idea, or is it conventional, with a stapler, a calender featuring Chuck Norris or cat pictures, and a few bobble-heads?