Cindy on March 10th, 2009
If you really want to write, you will do it anywhere: under trees, on the bus, in the bathroom, or in a booth at a noisy cafe.”
First published in 1929, A Room of One’s Own by Virginia Woolf has been reduced to a catchphrase for writers and architects who haven’t even read the book. Originally penned as two lectures, Woolf’s landmark essay asserts that every woman writer should have a substantial income and a room of her own if she is to produce literature worthy of publication and readership.
Furthermore, Woolf said, women who want to write ought to be given the freedom to travel — and they must have plenty of idle time for daydreaming and creating. That was very progressive talk for the 1920s.
And while it isn’t exactly earth shattering today, A Room of One’s Own is still considered a major milestone for women writers. Whenever I’m asked to name 10 books that changed my life, this one never fails to top the list.
Excuses, excuses!
Not surprisingly, the subject of finding privacy and “the perfect writing space” always comes up in the writing workshops I teach. In fact, not having a room of one’s own is the most popular excuse for not writing anything. I’ve met a few self-described procrastinators who do have an extra guest room but insist they can’t work there because it’s poorly lit, uninspiring, too small, too cluttered, too close to the neighbor’s window, or cursed with bad feng shui.
But sooner or later, every writer arrives at this truth: If you really want to write, you will do it anywhere: under trees, on the bus, in the bathroom, or in a booth at a noisy cafe. Serious writers need only a pen and a notebook to get started. And nothing — not even a bad view or ugly curtains — will stop us.
That said, I believe Virginia Woolf made an excellent point about the need for peace and privacy, and she didn’t even have kids to distract her.
Setting boundaries, closing doors
When my son was a toddler, I began freelancing in the damp basement of our 1920′s home. If you’re a younger parent who’s eager to combine writing with motherhood and housekeeping, setting up shop at a kid’s craft table next to the laundry room might sound convenient.
But I quickly discovered this was not what Virginia had in mind.
Working in a murky basement was actually a metaphor for the way I undervalued my career at the time. Aside from the fact that the ambiance was vaguely reminiscent of Freddy Krueger’s boiler room, my desk was typically littered with construction paper or my preschooler’s science experiments. Settling in to write, I’d find blue finger paint or Play-Doh oozing from my paper-clip container. My scissors and rolls of tape mysteriously disappeared. Meanwhile, the clothes dryer kept buzzing — which didn’t exactly impress the editors who phoned about assignments.
A year later, I moved my office upstairs to a small library with lots of windows overlooking the yard. Not long afterward, I began taking my work more seriously.
Most important of all, my home office has a glass door to establish my boundaries. Even though my essays and newspaper columns are read in public, I’ve never liked the sense of other people looking over my shoulder while I draft new material. So I usually keep the door closed while I work.
Clearing your own space
Every writer is different, so you’ll have to experiment until you find what works for you.
Not long ago, I met a parenting columnist who’s also the brave mother of four little boys. She rented cheap office space just ten minutes from her house, which seemed like a brilliant idea at the time. But after three months of commuting back and forth to work and trying to coordinate an awkward breast-feeding schedule, the columnist admitted her new office wasn’t so ideal. The clamor of family life is what kept her energized and motivated.
If you don’t have the luxury of a spare bedroom or an attic with a desk, claim a corner of the house where you can focus on your work. Use the area just for writing (or your other creative projects) and keep supplies within easy reach. Put up a folding screen for privacy while you work; or use it to conceal your works-in-progress. Creating an official space for your creative life will dignify your goals and intentions. You’ll find it easier to establish a routine — and harder to keep making excuses.
If you don’t already have a room of your own, can you describe your ideal space — right down to the supplies you’d need? What would you have to do to make it a reality? – Cindy La Ferle
Note: Part of this essay is excerpted from a previously published essay “Home Sweet Office” — which appears in full in my book, Writing Home.
Top photo: a detail from one of my altered art pieces inspired by Woolf’s A Room of One’s Own. Bottom photo: a glimpse of my recently remodeled home office in Royal Oak.
Cindy on September 1st, 2008
“So long as you write what you wish to write, that is all that matters, and whether it matters for ages or only for hours, nobody can say.” — Virginia Woolf, A Room of One’s Own
Fall doesn’t officially begin until September 22. But as far as I’m concerned, summer ends as soon as the kids head back to school. I love this time of year. Feeling a burst of new energy, I’m ready to start a new season of coaching and teaching writing classes in my community. This week, I’m looking forward to a discussion group at the Royal Oak Public Library called The Writer’s Life, September 4, 11, and 18 at 7pm in the ROPL Auditorium. I’ve gathered a panel of professional journalists and editors to answer questions about the life of a working writer. You’ll also get a list of the very best books available on the craft of writing and living the writer’s life. For more information and to register for the program, visit the Royal Oak Public Library web site. – CL
Cindy on August 25th, 2008
My favorite comedy routine is the one in which Steve Martin blanks out in the middle of a monologue, then beams a vacant smile and informs his audience that he’s momentarily “visiting the Bahamas.” Martin redefined the ultimate dream vacation — which seems to be the only type of vacation most women can schedule these days.
Back when I was editor of a travel magazine, I studied the psychological benefits of taking real vacations. At a seminar for innkeepers and hotel managers, I was excited to learn that scads of scientific research had been done to determine what made female guests happy, and what inspired them to return for future holidays. Was it a room with a gorgeous view? Complimentary chocolate truffles? Bellhops who looked like Brad Pitt?
As it turned out, most women listed crisply laundered sheets, spanking-clean bathrooms, and attentive room service as top amenities on the hotel surveys. Or, as a mother of three explained recently, the best part of her family vacation to Disney World was simply returning every night to the hotel suite and discovering that the cleaning fairies had made all the beds.
So, lately I’ve been thinking: If women love to be pampered, why is it that so few of us book personal vacations when we need them? Why is it so hard for us to hit âpauseâ? Despite all the labor-saving devices that modern living affords, we still can’t shake our Puritan work ethic. Whether we’re buying groceries for a family of five or sprinting to the next marketing meeting, our lives are fractioned like the to-lists in our day planners. There’s never enough time.
Worse yet, the media have brainwashed us into thinking that free time isn’t for leisure anymore. If we’re not designing our own line of furniture or auditioning for the symphony on our lunch breaks, we feel like slackers. It’s tough to justify a fifteen-minute soak at home in a Crabtree & Evelyn bubble bath, let alone a week at a spa.
Years ago, when I was a younger mom with an office job and a preschooler, an editor with whom I worked was kind enough to share her well-thumbed copy of Anne Morrow Lindbergh’s inspirational classic, Gift from the Sea. First published in 1955, this little book of reflections was written during the famous author’s solitary retreats to an isolated beach house.
Using seashells to represent the various stages of a woman’s life, Lindbergh wrote with amazing clarity about issues that still baffle us today — how to find spiritual serenity in suburban chaos; how to manage work and family; how to jazz up a droopy marriage.
Just as Virginia Woolf reminded us that we need a room of our own in which to dream and create, Lindbergh gave busy wives and mothers permission to schedule precious time alone. I desperately needed that permission â and am forever indebted to the editor who loaned me Lindbergh’s book.
“The problem is not merely one of Woman and Career, Woman and the Home, Woman and Independence,â Lindbergh wrote. âIt is more basically: how to remain whole in the midst of the distractions of life.â A deserted beach is the ideal place to hear one’s inner voice, she emphasized. Wandering the shore minus goals, deadlines, or diaper bags, a woman can replenish her depleted soul and reclaim her sanity.
Revisiting Gift from the Sea 20 years later, I realize I still need âa central core to my lifeâ that will enable me to carry out my midlife obligations â caring for my aging mother; being a supportive wife; cheering my son’s independence; putting wings on my own dreams.
I don’t doubt that a solo flight to a cabana in the tropics would help me find that central core. A pina colada with a cute paper umbrella would help, too.
But right now, there’s a list of chores and deadlines competing for my attention, including a backyard garden that needs a good weeding. For now I’ll have to settle for a quick mental escape to a fantasy island. Once I get there, maybe I’ll run into Steve Martin. — Cindy La Ferle
– This essay originally appeared in the June 2008 issue of Strut for Women magazine –
___________
Working in a murky basement was actually a metaphor for the way I undervalued my career at the time. Aside from the fact that the ambiance was vaguely reminiscent of Freddy Krueger’s boiler room, my desk was typically littered with construction paper or my preschooler’s science experiments. Settling in to write, I’d find blue finger paint or Play-Doh oozing from my paper-clip container. My scissors and rolls of tape mysteriously disappeared. Meanwhile, the clothes dryer kept buzzing — which didn’t exactly impress the editors who phoned about assignments.
