A Room of One’s Own: My Very Own Writing Studio

First there was this.

IMG_1990

Before.

Just this junky old room with moldy brown carpet and three flavors of paint (one puke green, one puke pink, one puke indeterminate). This was the studio adjacent to our apartment, which had sat empty for years and years on end, except as a dumping ground for various items of hardware that had been used in the renovation of our place. When we moved in next door, the landlord told us he was planning to renovate the studio for Maya, the eccentric and kind older woman who gardens here every Tuesday. Of course neither B nor I particularly wanted anyone to move in next door, but what could we do? Maya is very nice. Our landlord said he would begin fixing it up in January. Then it was February. Then March. As May arrived, we realized he had no intention of ever getting to it—or at least, not any time soon.

And then one day Maya announced to B that she had found a different place to live, and it occurred to me that without the incentive of fixing it up for Maya, George really might not get to it for a while. In other words, right next to my house was a small sunny room with its own bathroom that was….

Empty.

Available.

Unoccupied.

And perfect to become a writing studio. 

I emailed George and asked whether he would consider letting me rent it. I can’t pay you much, I said, but it’s more than you’re getting now, and I’ll do all the work. And after an agonizing two weeks, he wrote to say he thought that would be fine. (!!!) Then he agreed to let me paint, pull out the carpet, and generally make it mine. And so, a few weekends ago, I got up early and went to work. I sanded the walls and painted them a soft, soft gray. We hauled the nasty carpet out to the driveway. I scrubbed the floors, cleaned the bathroom, put up a shelf, washed the cover on the dusty old futon that lives here. I moved in a lamp, a chair, some throw pillows, a rug, and finally, a desk.

And here I sit, writing this blog post.

And after.

And after.

I have wanted my own writing space for—well, forever. In grad school, in Northampton, Massachusetts, I had a pretty great two-room apartment with large windows and high ceilings and lots of space, and I had an office there, though it was one half of the room I used as my bedroom, so not totally ideal. Since then, though, we’ve never had the extra space, and I’ve worked in coffee shops and at the library or, occasionally, at the kitchen table. The trouble with any of these places, of course, is that they’re noisy and you can’t pace around reading things out loud or debating the finer points of a sentence or shouting “why is this so f%^&*#g hard?!” You can’t hang up on the wall all the bits and baubles of paper and notes and whatnots that have come to you in brilliant moments or procrastinating moments. You can’t casually leave your laptop and go make a cup of tea, because someone might steal your last five years of work.

And at the kitchen table, it’s far too easy to feel guilty about the dirty dishes or the bills that just came shooting through the mail slot and get distracted.

In short, none of those places are yours and yours alone, your place to write, to think, to procrastinate, to mess up, to be. 

But this place is. Mine.

You’ll see, on the wall to the left of the desk, a series of pieces of paper. To christen my new writing studio, I hosted the Creative Women’s Cocktail Hour here last week, and we did an exercise: we used a couple of one-word prompts and responded to them using paper and pens and crayons and markers, scissors and collage and glue.

The Lion Prompt

The Lion Prompt

The first prompt, given to me by a certain five-year-old, was “lion.” I loved the way these all looked next to each other when we hung them up, like they all spoke to each other somehow. I could feel the space warming up with color and words and intention.

We went on to do more; we riffed on “illness,” on “middle.” We worked independently but all together, and eventually, we filled the whole space with paper.

It reminds me of a poem from a mentor I miss, the terrific late poet Agha Shahid Ali: 

Stationery

The moon did not become the sun.
It just fell on the desert
in great sheets, reams
of silver handmade by you.

The night is your cottage industry now,
the day is your brisk emporium.

The world is full of paper.
Write to me.

© Agha Shahid Ali

 

Yes, the world is full of paper.

Twenty Novels I’m Grateful For

I had this idea to choose twenty books I was thankful for as an homage to one of my favorite holidays, Thanksgiving. But then I realized I couldn’t choose only twenty, or decide which to include. So welcome to my multi-part series, Books I’m Grateful For, with today’s installment: novels. (Still to come: poetry! And more.)

Happy Thanksgiving, readers. I’m thankful for so much this year, and I hope you are, too.

Twenty Novels I’m Grateful For:

1. To the Lighthouse, Virginia Woolf

2. The Longest Journey, E.M. Forster

3. The Sound and the Fury, William Faulkner

photo-44. Pride and Prejudice, Jane Austen

5. The History of Love, Nicole Krauss

6. Invisible Man, Ralph Ellison

7. Room, Emma Donoghue

8. The White Bone, Barbara Gowdy

9. Spartina, John Casey

10. The Color Purple, Alice Walker

11. The Lowland, Jhumpa Lahiri

Thank you google images

Thank you google images

12. State of Wonder, Ann Patchett

13. Out Stealing Horses, Per Petterson

14. The Road, Cormac McCarthy

15. Possession, A.S. Byatt

16. Disgrace, JM Coetzee

17. Another Country, James Baldwin

18. American Pastoral, Philip Roth

19. My Antonia, Willa Cather

20. The Virgin Suicides, Jeffrey Eugenides

I could go on, and on, and on…but I will stop there.

What novels are YOU grateful for?