THE DESK

Jane leaned back in her desk chair, looking out at the commotion on the lake through her bay windows. The inexperienced sailor on the white catarmaran was yelling expletives into the wind in frustration at the calm conditions. Jane pulled across the sheer white curtains as they flapped wildly across her desk in the early spring breeze.

She closed her eyes and drummed her nails on the exquisite writing desk, a hand-me-down from her grandfather. These days his calligraphy pens, nibs and ink had made way for more modern tools that she actually knew how to use; like a laptop, a couple of portable hard drives and piles of newspaper cuttings.

She looked out at the man dragging his boat back onto dry land. She hadn’t even written a paragraph since he had gone out this morning. Jane put her fingers on the keyboard and bounced them atop of the letters, as if they would start typing meaningful sentences by themselves. She jumped as her mobile vibrated on the desk, excitedly telling her that Joan, her editor of three years, was calling for the hundredth time this week.

Sorry Joan, I know I promised you the intro, but I’ve been distracted by a boat for the past five hours.

I bet grandpa never had writer’s block.

Her grandfather had told her this desk had saved his life during World War Two. For years, she had imagined him tapping away at his typewriter until the planes were overhead, then ducking under his desk, as if the rickety old thing were some sort of nuclear bunker.

But he hadn’t meant it so literally. Writing became his way of distancing himself from the horrors of war. Grandpa had been conscripted into the army in 1939. During a training camp six months later, he was hit by a stray bullet that lodged in his spine. Unable to walk, he was honourably discharged, and had discovered writing, the one thing that kept him going through the dark years.

But it wasn’t working out like that for Jane. It had been almost three years since the death of her beloved daughter, Sarah, who was killed in a boating accident at 12 years old. Jane’s fifth novel, which she was still working on, had been due for completion two years ago. It wasn’t so much writer’s block, but human fear. Fear of letting go of her emotions.

© 2010 Elizabeth Neil All Rights Reserved