A Room of One’s Own

Virginia Woolf said that a woman must have money and a room of her own if she is to write fiction. She said this in lectures at Cambridge University in the 1920s, talking not only about writing, but about feminism, and the ongoing struggle for women in the arts to be acknowledged, respected and allowed to succeed.

All important, all good. But it was always the “room of one’s own” part that resonated with me. Because I never really had one.

Okay, I’ve had rooms of my own a few times since growing up and leaving home. Usually the spare bedroom with a table or desk. Almost always a shared space. For years, when my children were young and growing and I was a college professor, the kitchen table was mine, all mine. Centre of the house. The hub, where Mom could be found prepping lessons and marking assignments in between making meals, folding laundry, arguing with the teenager about sketchy weekend plans, or offering advice on schoolyard politics. More recently, I spent almost 10 years at the dining room table, a.k.a. the home media bench, while working in sports communications. Me and the china and silverware.

And I still managed to write a couple of books that got published. But, but… 

A room of my own. A studio. An office. It was always a dream. And now, with kids moved out and a quieter pace of life, I have finally claimed a space just for me. For my writing, my books, my music, my rug hooking, my yarn stash. My stuff. My creativity. My solitude. 

Of course, you’ll still find me at the kitchen table with my computer, or in the living room by the fire with my yarn and needles, or in the family room watching the Leafs (one day soon, I hope) and playing my dulcimer. 

But to have my room of one’s own to retreat to…?  Yes, Virginia. There are things worth waiting for.

Here's a little tour...

 

A tiny glimpse of my embarrassingly large yarn stash. Please don't judge me.

Yes, I am a hooker.

The instrument is a mountain dulcimer, purchased over 30 years at the Halifax Folklore Centre, and well travelled. The books are part of a collection of traditional folksong that I've been amassing since I was 12 years old and my Grade 6 teacher gave me the school's copy of Edith Fowke's Folksongs of Canada. He knew I was onto something. (Thank you, Mr. Logan!)

Norton Anthology, Beowulf and Snorra Edda (that's Old Icelandic for, very roughly, Snorri's Stories - Snorra Sturluson's 13th century collection of stories and verse.) Also my mother's collection of Rosamunde Pilcher. Favourite re-reads, such as A Town Like Alice, Pride and Prejudice and Vera Brittain's A Testament of Youth. Current fiction and non-fiction from people I know (Terry Fallis, Brad Smith, Sara Jewell). And tons of music.

A workspace must include tea.

Writing Magic: First you have to plant some seeds...

Raise your hand if sometimes your writing life stumbles. You decide to clean your desk - or your office, or your whole house - instead of focusing on the creative process. You let the distractions take over. You are overwhelmed by Life (okay, this really does happen, so I'll cut you some slack here.)

Domestic chores don't get done unless someone does them. Journeys don't get completed unless the traveller gets in the car (boards the train/plane, takes that first step, etc). Flowers don't grow unless someone puts a seed in the soil.

Yes - let's go with that one.

Imagine these are your creations:

  

They're your characters, scenes, stories, novels, poems, plays, whatever.

Gorgeous, rich, tall, full of life, right?

Well, they didn't happen by magic. 

They started out as little black seeds in a packet. Lifeless. Dry. 

Waiting.

But put them in the soil, give them some water, and one day you'll see these:

  

My point? 

The writing life doesn't happen by magic. 

Here's the secret: If you want your creativity to grow, you have to plant the seeds. Now. Don't put roadblocks in your own way. I mean, really, how hard is it to pick up the packet, rip it open, tip out the little, black, dormant seeds and push them into the soil?

Whatever metaphor you want to use is just fine - putting seeds in the soil, taking that first step on a journey, or (as Louis L'Amour wrote), turning on the faucet to get the water flowing - it all amounts to the same concept.

Get started. Now.

It's not magic, it's just one more truth in the writing life, and this from a writer (moi!) who has a championship history of putting roadblocks in her own way. Seeing those little sprouts in my garden this morning, and thinking back to the towering, gorgeous sunflowers I enjoyed as last summer crept to a close, I gave myself a mental shake.

It all starts somewhere. Seat of the pants in the seat of the chair, etc. 

But first you have to plant some seeds.

Need some help with finding the seed packet? Here are some writing starters from author and teacher Heather Wright.

Open that door!

Open door on Writing Life - Today! Now!

So here’s the thing about my writing life. It’s uneven.

Yes, all the experts say writing takes commitment. That you just have to show up. That you need to apply yourself to it every day. That you shouldn’t wait for a muse to get it going. That it’s work. That it’s not just something you do in your spare time.

Yup. All true.

But my writing life is uneven. It’s rough. It’s something that ebbs and flows, and I ebb and flow with it. My creativity sometimes goes away.

Can that really happen? Yes, it can. It has happened to me more often than I would like to admit. It’s as if all the air in a balloon seeps out, and I’m left holding this weary, deflated piece of plastic on a string. Nothing there.

Why does this happen? Life. The many distractions and obligations of Life, and the people I share it with. I guess you could say that I compartmentalize. I sometimes feel the need to put my writing life in a room, where it will be safe, resting, and patient.

And I close the door. I’m actually quite good at it.

So Life goes on, but my Writing Life goes into a deep sleep, behind the door.

To be fair to myself, it’s not like I’m not writing – I’m writing a lot. In fact, that’s my job. I write stories about curling clubs, and curling people. I write news reports from the media bench at national and international events, and I produce media releases and marketing materials and corporate documents for my employer. Lots of variety. Lots of writing.

And while the deadlines loom and the obligations of my job pile up, my creative writinglLife goes to sleep behind that door. I miss it, oh yes I do. But I don’t have the time or energy to open the door and let it out.

Besides, it’s a bit like having secret treat stashed away, just waiting for the perfect moment to indulge myself.

But now it’s April, and there have been stirrings behind the door, recently. Little bumps in the night: whispers, characters, scenes. Quite exciting, actually! It’s like looking forward to going on a trip and enjoying the anticipation of dreaming up the itinerary. The places I’ll go! The people I’ll meet!

Now, today, I have my hand on the doorknob and the hinges are creaking. Yup. The door on my writing life is swinging open...