Soft Wooden Heart : INTROSPECTION essay

The backbone of my life is my writing desk. I like to describe its surface as an organized mess (despite my parents’ overdramatized description of a bomb site), a state of positive entropy and minimum energy. Math exercises overlap an organizer, set next to almost-empty tubes of paint and overdue library books. A constantly filled bottle of water sits behind a glasses’ case full of guitar picks, and carved into a mountain of paper, right in the middle, is a space reserved for my laptop—on days when I am slouching, The Complete Works of William Shakespeare needs to be slid under it. An eclectic desk shows an eclectic personality; mine has had the honor of being the training grounds prior to the Great (final) Battle (exam) of Chemistry, the peaceful meadow of relaxed reading afternoons, and all in all the pristine-turned-colorful canvas of an inquisitive mind.
I remember buying it with my mother five years ago, when my bruised knees protested against the tiny white-paint-gone-yellow one I had used since childhood. My new desk was made of native Rimu heartwood—solid, resilient, dependable—a perfect role model for me to grow into. Over the years, its material became representative of my New Zealand identity, its surface slowly coated in quirky personality, and its compartments filled with treasured memories; the heartwood desk echoed my heart.
At first, it did not fit with the decor of the rest of my room, which even now appears boxy and stark next to my grandiosely elegant writing desk, but its quiet strength is unafraid of individuality, just as I have learned to become. It has watched as I grew stronger branches, a straighter trunk, firmer roots; whereas I had once been but a shy young seedling, I sprouted leaves and with them the ability and yearning to provide shade for others. I have certainly physically grown into it, but although I would like to think that I have become completely independent, I remain human; in inevitable times of need, it is still my steadfast, sturdy desk that offers its support.
I sit here and, well, I write: joyfully, desolately, irately, wistfully—at times paralyzed by excitement, at others crippled by fear. I scrawl notes in my organizer (which is, naturally, not in the least organized), words overflow my blog, overemotional oranges and blues plague my illustrations; shallow scratch marks indent the wood from where I have pressed too passionately into paper. It may be solid, but it is elastic enough to be shaped, resilient enough to adapt: This is my soft wooden heart.
It can take it. My desk remains constant despite scars of experience—unassuming, stoic, ever watchful. Even when I dismembered dying cell phones, their frail key tones pleading for mercy, the desk stood there, nonchalant. Regardless of what fervor goes on from time to time, it knows there will eventually be a constant calm; my lively nest of rebuilt mobiles still calls this place home. Sometimes, I rest my uncertain head on its reassuring solid surface and the wood presses back into my heartbeat, communicating in Morse: “Don’t worry. Some things will never change.”
And, like a mother, it always turns out to be right. Beneath my seemingly chaotic coat of papers and objects; beneath the superfluous, temporary things that define my present life, my desk and my heart remain still—solid, stable, and evergreen, ready to be written onto and scratched into by experience.
REVIEW
One of this essay’s strengths is its honesty. Winnie manages to convey a lot about her life by describing what lies on her desk, from “empty tubes of paint” to guitar picks. She slips in important details about herself almost casually, letting us know that although she is studying for her chemistry exam, she also uses The Complete Works of William Shakespeare to prop up her laptop when she’s slouching in her seat. Her skillful thick description makes her very real and quirky personality shine through: Winnie quips that her organizer is “naturally, not in the least organized,” and she describes how she “dismembered dying cell phones” on her writing desk. Overall, Winnie does a successful job of conveying much about her character and personality through the description of a rather mundane and everyday object, her writing desk.
If this essay has a flaw, it is its lack of central focus or narrative structure. Winnie does attempt to tell a story over the course of her essay, using the writing desk as a motif to narrate the tale of her own development from a “shy young seedling” to a more mature young adult. Winnie’s writing desk comes into her life as a “role model,” remains in her room watching her mature and grow up, and serves as her metaphoric heart, remaining “solid, stable, and evergreen.” Yet other than her hobbies, we learn little about what kind of experiences have shaped Winnie’s “New Zealand identity,” and her essay lacks narrative structure other than simply detailing Winnie’s transition into maturity. Tracing a story line or centering the essay on a narrative with a beginning, middle, and end would help lend this piece the structure that it currently lacks.
Overall, however, Winnie successfully accomplishes the rather difficult task of setting the vibrant narrative of her own growing maturity on top of the description of an everyday and familiar object, her writing desk. Her essay paints a picture of her life that could stand to be more structured, but nonetheless conveys an interesting and multifaceted personality.
—Sandra Y. L. Korn