Lately I’ve been seeking and reading short stories by Virginia Woolf. I’ve read several of her novels, but somehow I neglected her shorter fiction. And any writer, especially a female writer, should be familiar with her 1929 essay “A Room of One’s Own.”
It’s always interested me how writers in fiction carve out space and time to write. And it’s always interested me how writers of fiction do the same.
Looking through photos, I spied this one of Lynne, and I knew exactly where she was. For a time, she and her sister shared a house with three bedrooms. The extra bedroom was a guest room, but they also let me make a space for myself in that room, even though I wasn’t living there. It was a place where I could write. And I did write. None of it was very good writing. In fact, most of it is long gone, and the world is better for its absence. Trust me.
But I see Liz’s typewriter there, for my use, and I remember listening to music in that room, and just breathing and struggling my way toward creating. These places, so important, remain part of us always. And we are lucky when we have friends, family, and other artists who encourage and make room in their lives, too, for our struggles.
I’m thankful for you all who have helped me dwell inside those rooms.