I used to write in bed.

It was fine.  Really.  Propped against pillows, with a cup of tea on the bedside table, I wrote on my laptop. 

I had a desk in my pink bedroom as a girl. I did homework and typed satiric stories at my desk, Years later, I bought a big super-heavy office desk at a yard sale.  A local rock musician helped us move it, in return for our help with an awkward chair.

And that desk followed me around to God knows how many apartments. 

Does everyone need a desk? You need a desk if you type on a typewriter.  For a laptop, you do not. I took to my bed.  Why doesn’t everyone use her bed as an office?  I’ve tried taking the office outdoors, but there’s too much glare on the screen. 

Think Oblomov, the great Russian novel by Ivan Goncharov. The hero, Oblomov, lolls in bed and rarely leaves his flat, even when his friends ask him to go for carriage rides. My bed is my desk but I will go for carriage rides.

Many famous people have written in bed, according to the Guardian, though we have no data on their lounge-wear. Picture Samuel Johnson, Edith Wharton, Marcel Proust, Colette, Winston Churchill, Princess Di, Monica Ali, and A. N. Wilson scribbling in bed.

I have bad news about writing in bed, though. My back hurts.

Is it time to buy a desk?

Stay tuned for “My Bed Is a Desk,” Part 2,,,

What I’m reading now:  The Gate, by Natsume Soseki, a beautifully-written novel by one of my favorite Japanese novels.