Tiny Desk. Big Dreams.
I’ve had the same desk for about four years now, basically the entirety of my foray into writing seriously. As desks go, it’s nothing special. A black IKEA tabletop with grey metal legs that’s barely large enough to fit my computer. It’s where I put together epic masterpieces and piddling trifles; where I spend hours lost in the Zone and also procrastinating on Medium when I have writer’s block.
My trusty desk is the physical manifestation of my dream of becoming a “real” writer. As a talisman of such gravity, it’s always had its own designated space wherever I lived. That changed recently as my wife and I have been slowly converting our second bedroom into the nursery. What was once my office (and domain of the cats) is being converted into the exclusive realm of His Majesty, the baby.
The change was jarring. I was used to having my desk be the focal point of a room. Sure, the cats tracked litter all over it and puked on it from time to time, but it was my space. It’s where I toiled over my work — nay, my art! — and pondered future successes (and defeats). My writing meant something. It was the foundation of my hopes and dreams. It had gravitas. It was a very big deal.
Or so I thought.
My desk now occupies a small corner of the master bedroom, and I see just where my writing fits in the grand scheme of things. It doesn’t generate income for the family (yet), which makes it just a hobby. It’s something that needs to take a backseat to my primary responsibility of being a father. That realization was very sobering.
Having a baby changes everything about your life, right down to the most fundamental aspects of it. Writing is at the core of who I am, and even that’s not safe. I moped around for a few days being depressed about all of this, but now I’m at peace. If I love writing as much as I say I do (and I do), I’ll just need to make time for it, even if that means sacrificing some of the other things I enjoy — TV, video games, sleep.
At the end of the day, even though my desk is in a small corner of the bedroom, nothing has really changed about it. The only thing different is my perspective. My desk is the same size with the same trinkets and the same cat puke stains. More importantly, the dream that my desk represents remains unchanged, and that dream is as big as it ever was. It’s something worth pursuing, even if it means doing so with a baby (or two) tucked beneath my arm.
