First Novel

I needed my space right. My objects right. My feeling right.

I cleared out a spare room to use as a studio. Scrubbed the skirting boards twice. Measured the light at different times of day, then rechecked in case I had misjudged. I moved the desk in, then out again, then back in. Then shifted it by a few millimetres to make sure it sat square. I installed a new desktop and a monitor, even though the old one worked fine. I needed it to feel like a true beginning.

On the shelf attached to the desk, I placed a singing bowl. The sound, they said, could settle the mind. I liked the idea of starting each session with a clear tone. Like striking a bell before entering somewhere sacred. I tapped it once, listened, then tapped again to be sure. In the corner of the top shelf, I placed a lucky bamboo. It meant resilience. Strength. I chose it because the stalks were hollow. I wanted to be hollow too; cleared out, so nothing could block the words.

On the lower shelf beneath the desk, I laid a stone I’d picked up from the front yard on a small wooden board. It wasn’t particularly beautiful, but it had weight, and that felt important. Beside it I placed a citrine crystal, the kind said to sharpen focus and keep energy flowing. I wanted to believe it would help. I moved the stone a little to the left, then back, then back again, until it felt… settled.

Pens in every colour stood to the right of the monitor. I sorted them by tone. Removed the ones that didn’t feel right. Put them back. Counted them. Recounted to make sure it was an even number. Above the screen, I hung a black circle inside a square 40-by-40-centimetre frame. Somewhere, I’d heard that soft, simple shapes could quiet the brain. I adjusted it several times to make sure it was exactly centred.

I adjusted the keyboard and mouse again. Then again. I stood up. Sat back down. Moved the chair three centimetres to the left. No, too far. I moved the citrine sixteen times. Actually, seventeen. The last one didn’t count. It wasn’t quite centred. It took me ten days to settle on a single sentence to ground myself as a writer: Every word I write is a step closer.

After all the ritual, all the arrangement, all the meaning I’d given to every object, I was ready.

I’M FINALLY READY TO WRITE

The room is too clean. Too organised. Too perfect.

The deceased estate cleaner stands in the doorway, taking it in. The property manager said the man who lived here was a writer. Died of a sudden heart attack. Looking around, he believes it. The space looks deliberate. Focused. Held together by something unsaid. Whoever lived here was gripped by something.

There’s a stone on a wooden board beneath the desk. A crystal beside it. On the shelf above, a dead bamboo plant in a glass container. Pens in every colour stand upright beside the monitor. A black circle hangs above it, centred in a square frame.

No mess. No paper. No name. The drawers are empty—no notebooks, no manuscript, not even a post-it or a receipt. Just a room.

He powers on the computer.

There must be something. A novel. Notes. An early draft. Something unfinished but real. The screen loads. One Word file sits in the centre of the screen: First Novel.

He double-clicks.

The file contains a single sentence.

I’m finally ready to write.

© 2025 Jade Park. All rights reserved.
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