My desk. It’s messy, even though it’s been recently tidied (honest). As you can see, it’s laden with marking. It’s hard to prioritise the crazy fictional worlds in my head when there are very real children who want to know what I think of theirs. Who said becoming an English teacher paves the way to being a writer? A crazy person. At this rate, my students will be published before I am.
I wonder if a desk tells you everything you need to know about me. Maybe it just tells you I buy more pens than I need.That I crowd myself with distractions. (There’s quite often a cat under that lamp, too: she thinks it’s her own personal arse heater). It tells you that Paperchase is basically my crack dealer: I’m addicted to Lamy pens and cutesy pen pots.
I’m moving house soon, and I shall miss this little hidey-hole, my perfect little home office. The new house is smaller, so I’ve been buying boxes for every last item of stationery. I have a post-it notes box. I have a delectable selection of teacher stickers. My Pilot pens are organised by colour. What can I say? They’re important to me. I’ve been obsessed with this stuff since Santa put Scotch tape and a mighty fine stapler in my Christmas stocking (so it’s my parents’ fault). Does stationery make me a better writer? A better teacher? Of course not. But life’s too short for economy paper and scratchy biros. You know that smooth, satisfying feeling of a new gel pen on high-GSM paper? That’s heaven to me.