A woman's desk -- like her lingerie drawer, the bedroom of her teenage years, the corners of her mind where poetry lives -- is entirely her own. And in this moment, I may have an overabundance of affection for mine.
I needed something to strike a balance between my inner romantic & the practicalities of, well, a workspace. It's easy to hit one and hard to hit both simultaneously. I can't focus in a space too cluttered, but I can't think in one too barren either. And so a few things -- a silk scarf to thumb in moments of writer's block, a Degas from the Musée d'Orsay, an excessively feminine lamp & seat to contrast the minimal desk.
I also keep a copy of "How to Be Parisian Wherever You Are" because it feels rather like reading an inspiring blog -- something to get lost in. It's actually a favorite book of mine. Thank you, Caroline de Maigret et al, for reminding me the charm of writing freely, straightforwardly, and for caring a little less. And I aways wear perfume while I work. It reminds me of my physicality. I can get too lost in my soul.