Sometimes I hate my desk. Well, it’s a bureau actually, and I don’t really hate it. Not in the same way I hate buses and bad coffee. I quite like it really, the way it pretends to be much older and posher than it is and the drawers that have come off their runners and the bits I’ve accidentally stained white with overly hot cups.
But when I’m sitting here trying to make something work that doesn’t want to, none of that matters. When I’m sitting here with plots that won’t tie together and characters that won’t do what I want them to – or even anything at all – I want to trash the stupid thing and all of my broken ideas along with it. I never have of course, and I’m sure I never will, but it’s tempting enough.
While the desk never gets it, I hate to admit that sometimes people do instead. And real people too, not just made up ones. Most of the time I don’t even realise that that’s quite what I’m doing and I always feel bad about it afterwards, but I wish it was a habit I could drop. Maybe I should buy a cheaper desk, a really cheap desk, and then I could trash that and get rid of the frustration without destroying anything important.