Blame it on the Buffalo

Writing desk
Photo by Seamus Holman. Used under Creative Commons License.

The movers broke my desk in half. Literally, they broke it in half. The pieces, which they bothered to deliver to me, look like a fairy tale giant had a temper tantrum. I must assume it fell from a great height. Or the truck backed over it. Or somewhere between California and Wisconsin they had to use it to defend themselves against a charging herd of buffalo. No one seemed to know.

It was so ridiculous that it might be a little bit funny if it weren’t your desk. It was the first desk I had as a real-no-kidding-they-pay-me-and-everything author. Up until The Desk, I wrote on three folding TV trays that I lined up in the bedroom of our apartment, so an actual desk was no small move up in the world.

The incident with the buffalo herd, however, meant that, while I had an office for the first time in my author life, I had no desk to put in the office. If I weren’t the sort of person who believes the universe is governed by chaos and chance, which I am, I might think there was some sort of lesson here or maybe just an in joke. But rather than think on that too much, I bought another desk. In fact, I bought two because my husband and I share the office, and I have a pathological need for visual order and symmetry.

Take that buffalo-filled universe of Russian roulette!

Then I unpacked my reference books, went to line them up on my brand new desk and discovered the movers had broken the book ends.