I went on sabbatical from school, and locked myself in my house. I bought a typewriter in order to produce an authentic looking manuscript. Fitzgerald, be damned! You too, Hemingway, I thought. I was the writer now. People will make movies out of my work, much to everyone’s disappointment because, as we all know, the movie pales in comparison to the book. I lit candles and an oil lantern and discussed with myself how smart I was. Or was I?
How could I, a soon to be critically acclaimed writer, forever doomed to become a shot-gun wielding hermit, even attempt to write what would be a brilliant novel without a proper writing desk? Dickens must be rolling over in his grave! My old TV tray with a decorative floral pattern surrounding a boat harbor just wouldn’t do.
I perused Cymax.com for a while, and discovered the perfect writing desk. It had an antique finish and plenty of room for my typewriter, so I ordered it immediately. When it arrived, creative juices flowed through my veins once again. I cracked my fingers and stretched my neck in preparation. I sat down and marveled at my new desk; the key to my would-be success was before me.
After staring at the keyboard for roughly eight hours, I decided maybe writing wasn’t my true calling; that wearing an ascot could be a fashion statement on its own. But what would my new passion be? I sat down at my writer’s desk and made a list:
- Basketball player
- Florist
- Sailor
- Trumpeter
- Juggler
I weighed the pros and cons of all, and have now, finally discovered my real passion; the true reason I was born. I am forever destined to search the internet and find great deals on quality furniture items. Everything else is too difficult. But I’m keeping the ascot.
No comments:
Post a Comment