Anyone who has read the right books growing up will know that Wardrobes are magical places. Of the portkeys that transport us from our everyday little world into the unknown world of worlds beyond, the Wardrobe is the most famous. While anyone with a little imagination will check the wall between train platforms 9 and 10, will look deeply into girl-size rabbit holes, and will look at objects left on park benches and in fallow fields to see if they shimmer, we cannot check every mirky wood for a way into faërie.
Never, though, do I ever pass a Wardrobe without at least having a peek inside.
We often find ourselves in magical wardrobes when we least expect it. It is sort of a Narnian principle that you can’t force it—you can’t make the magic happen just because you desperately want it. In this case, our growing family found ourselves in a tiny top floor apartment. My desk—strewn with papers, coffee cups, half-read books, and technology in various stages of decay— was an overwhelming sight in our single open space, the living room.
It had to be contained. We needed a solution to make our living space also a work space.
As our family was wandering through one of the least magical places in our particular universe—a suburban big box store—we suddenly found it: the Wardrobe. But not just any Wardrobe. A Wardrobe with a secret desk inside of it.
While this looks like a mundane desk built by the Sauder company to be ideally suited to tiny spaces, this Wardrobe-desk really was a portkey for my imagination. It was in this particular Wardrobe that my first story turned into my first novel. And then my second, and third. Here I discovered hundreds of characters in dozens of fictional worlds—for writing is always a kind of discovery, as new and surprising to the author as it is to the reader. Here I wrote my first 200 blogs, my first academic papers, my first project proposals. I spent at least three weekends, sleepless and fueled by coffee and idiotic hope, trying to pound out a novel for the International 3-Day Novel Contest.
It is also here that I wrote the letter confirming that our family’s dream of adoption had died—really, murdered by bad people who knew better. It was here where I received my first publisher rejections. It was in this Wardrobe I ran spreadsheets for the most difficult financial times of our lives. Even the magic of Wardrobes cannot fix everything.
My needs and space have grown. I now have a desk covered in half-read books, unpaid bills, various tea mugs, and years of technology at various stages of decay. I have had to move out of the Wardrobe.
The Wardrobe is used. I have added shelfs and braced it here or there. You can see the spot where I put my left foot: it has worn the Sauder varnish clean to a smooth, blonde sheen. You can see where I set my coffee mug down, and where I kept my mouse It is definitely used, but we all know that for Wardrobes to work they should never be new.
And now the Wardrobe can be yours.
I am asking $100—a bargain at twice the price! But if you tell me that you are a writer trying to transport yourself to another world, an author trying to find your way to print, a poet in the age after poetry, an innovator trying to do a beautiful thing, an artist who loves to sketch the world, or a teacher in training hoping to invite a whole new generation of young people to other worlds, you can have it for $80.
You’ll never know what is inside this Wardrobe for you until you peek.
See the ad here: http://www.kijiji.ca/v-buy-sell-desks/charlottetown-pei/you-never-know-whats-inside-this-wardrobe-desk-until-you-peek/1164837450.