My writing space is a disaster – a happy disaster. My desk is home to all sorts of things.
There are assorted piles of paper and various notes scribbled on envelopes. There are a couple of Hot Wheels and toy soldiers and a few small gifts people have given me, which include a ceramic nose one of my children made for a high school art class and a small block of wood with two matches glued to it along with plastic letters that say “You Light Up My Life,” which my wife found at a thrift store.
Why do I have all these things?
It’s not so much a question of why I have them as why I don’t take the time to apply some sort of order to it all – and the reason is, whenever I find I have enough time to do something I’d much rather spend it writing.
So the piles get bigger and more stuff comes along and one of these days I expect I’ll get buried under it all and that will just have to be how I make my exit.
Joe Davies’ short fiction has appeared in The Dublin Review, eFiction India, Prism, Grain, Descant, Exile, Stand, Rampike, The Missouri Review, Queen’s Quarterly and previously in The New Quarterly. He lives in Peterborough, Ontario.