In praise of having a room of one’s own to write from (metaphorically speaking, although a literal room is nice too)
Don’t be too precious about where you work, they say. A writer should be able to write anywhere. And I get it. If we’re too dependent on circumstances being ideal before we’re able to produce something (perfect silence, temperature just so, the gentle caress of your favourite velvet slippers, the waft of baking bread from the oven, interrupted vista of spectacular natural beauty, etc. etc.) we’ll never get anything done at all.
I have plenty of experience with not being precious where I work. Since having kids, most of my writing has been done in whatever corner of the house happens to be least chaotic at any given moment. One or more children needing to be fed? Usually. Toddler using my body as climbing wall? More often than not. Happy sibling play juuuussttt at the tipping point into life threatening violence? Almost always. Less than ideal conditions for the muse to whisper gently into my ear? You betcha. Unavoidable work conditions given current life circumstances? Also, a resounding yes.
Maybe you relate? We try to keep writing, not being precious about where, when, or whom happens to be climbing us as we attempt to parse our soul and mine our inner world and wrestle some meaning onto the page (or even just come up with something that’s sweet or cute or a little bit funny). We persevere. Often the work is unproductive. But sometimes, somehow, we write something that gives us pleasure. Maybe even something we want to share with others.
Because a writer can’t be too precious about where they write and all that. And yes, I believe it. Life is busy, and we have to find a way to write amongst the mess and noise and everyone’s competing demands or we won’t write at all. But I also believe that Virginia Woolf was onto something. Woolf believed having ‘a room of one’s own’ (read, time, space, quiet, some measure of independence from the needs of others) was vital for women writers to be productive.
This year, for the first time since becoming a mum, I’ve had the chance to test Woolf’s theory. Suddenly, all my kids have gone to school. Suddenly, some days yawn ahead, offering entire stretches of unimpeded hours for writing. And yes - I miss the beautiful connectedness of those early days with my kids, when they needed me for everything, and I had to write in snatches, and couldn’t be too precious about where. Those days are stored like a treasure in my heart. Those days made our family, and make me who I am. Those days gifted me a love of writing for children, and are an endless source of inspiration for the stories bubbling away in my head. Honestly though, those days were not ideal for writing my stories down. And that’s ok—different stages of life, and all that.
As for these days? I am relishing the quiet, freedom, and space to work. I affirm Woolf’s theory. It is good for a writer to have a room of their own.
The picture above is from my recent writing retreat, which took the room of one’s own thing to a whole new level with an actual, literal, room/cottage of my own. Just to be clear, I am not saying it is necessary to have an actual, physical room/cottage of one’s own, although I highly recommend it. What I’m talking about is having time, space, quiet, some measure of independence from the needs of others, in order to focus on work.
