Writing

I just read something on Nancy’s blog about the need of writers to write, and then lose their writing when it’s sometimes subconsciously appropriate. I started to skim the entry (sorry nance) after a while because i started thinking fast and wanted to get some ideas out. Now, I wouldn’t claim to be a “writer” although I write professionally. But to me a writer is some kind of magical being, kind of like a unicorn. I guess the pointy horn is the pen. Anyway, I’m off track, I think writing is something that’s magical. For me, I don’t do it enough. But when I do, I feel decent about myself, which is better than how I feel most of the time when I just feel bad.

And so, for a writer, there’s a lot of the action of writing that happens, that no one ever sees. That’s why it’s sort of disgusting when the sons and daughters of authors, rifling through their desks post-mortem publish a half-completed novel, journals, etc. It feels like a violation.

[Someone just called me so I lost my train of thought. But I guess I'll publish what I have so far.]

The Egg Chair

In a way I knew I had stumbled upon something fabulous the first time I saw it. It was in one of those antique shops on Lincoln Avenue, near Grace or whatever, one of those high-end used furniture shops with modern pieces. It was an egg chair, one like the super-villain in James Bond would sit in, where you’d only see legs and a hand stroking a Persian cat. Or maybe not, maybe he was in some other kind of chair. But, if I were going to sit and spend lots of time stroking a cat it would be in this guy, the egg chair.

This particular egg chair was white on the outside, on the shell part, inside it was a bright red velvet. When I sat in the chair, I just wanted to stay there forever and never leave. I sank back into it. I was in love.

There was no price tag on it, so I asked the older man with the fine taste in chairs how much it was.

“Oh that one?” he said with a smile. “It’s not for sale.”

“Why not?” I asked. “It’s in the store, you sell everything here.”

“Well, I mean, it’s on sale but I don’t think you’re the right person for it.”

“What does that mean?” I asked offended. “I love that chair, I’ll be a great owner and it will look fabulous in my apartment. I can already imagine spending hours in that chair, petting the cat, the whole thing!”

“Well, we’ll have to do a background check. I’ll give you some forms to fill out. We’ll do some interviews with your family, friends, that kind of thing. We’ll call you.”

I couldn’t believe it, what kind of furniture store was this? But since I did love that chair, and doubted that any other store would sell it, I filled out the forms and went home.

After a few days, then a week, I didn’t hear anything from the furniture guy. I would ask my friends, I called my parents, but they were demure about whether they got a call. Wanting to see the chair but not ruin my chances, I’d go to the store after hours and stare at the chair in the window. I’d imagine sitting in it, petting the Persian cat, and perhaps laughing monomaniacally, or not, I wasn’t sure yet how I would act in the chair.

After another week I was going to the store about every free afternoon after work and on weekend evenings. Soon after hours weren’t enough. I started hiding out in my car, across the street, looking at the chair through binoculars. I’d occasionally get glimpses of other men sitting in the egg chair, caressing the red velvet, grabbing the cushions, and kneading the fabric. I was jealous.

One day when I returned, at this point it had been several weeks and I hadn’t heard a word, I looked through my binoculars and the chair was gone. Storming out of my car, I forgot to leave the binoculars and walked in the store, glasses in hand. The man was there, looking slightly tense when he saw me.

“Where’s the chair!” I demanded. “And why haven’t you called me?”

“Well, we’ve sold the chair to someone else,” he said with a smile.

“But why?” I asked. “I would have loved it. I would have provided a great home for it!”

“We actually scouted out your apartment when you were at work,” he explained. “We even put the chair in your home, where we thought it would look best, and to be honest, it just wasn’t really the right setting we had in mind for the egg chair. Try a Barcelona chair, that might be a better fit.”