A Room of One’s Own
Last October, when our bathroom was ripped apart because of a water leak, my husband and I said to hell with it. Let's mess things up even more. The remediation offered an opportunity to rework other aspects of daily life that needed revising. It'd been a year since I fully committed to the writing life and was painfully aware that I needed my own office. With a door.
One of the unexpected quirks of pandemic life was the way it upset traditional professionalism. As we all donned masks in public, the boundaries between work and home were collapsing like punctured lungs. Laundry baskets littered the backdrop of Zoom business meetings. At desperate moments, a therapist friend of mine ran virtual sessions out of her car parked in the driveway, the only place with Wifi and no kids clanging in the background. Pre-pandemic, my desk and books were in the sunroom, a cozy nook just off the kitchen, which was perfect until schools shut down. During quarantine, I moved my workspace into my enclosed bedroom, writing in bed Marcel-Proust-style and teaching Zoom classes a few feet away from my overflowing sock and underwear drawer. The enmeshment of work life and intimate life felt amusing at first and maddening by the end. This was not sustainable. There are reasons we need separate spaces for work and family, separated by walls. And doors.
So, amid our recent home upheaval, Chris and I seized the day and switched home office spaces. He moved into the sunroom and I took the tiny, first-floor bedroom that housed his desk and a pull-out chair. Our Great Office Shuffle took several months and I'm still tweaking the space. During the process, I realized that the hardest part wasn't the physical labor of moving furniture, changing decor, or reorganizing books. It was the psychic and spiritual challenge of believing that my work as a writer was worth the effort and inconvenience, both to myself and others. Up until this point, almost every job or role I'd held required that I show up according to someone else's schedule and conditions. Unconsciously, I came to believe this external locus of control was the hallmark of any real success, especially as a woman. How could I take myself seriously unless other people did first? Working for someone else had always supplied a hidden stream of value for me, not to mention a steady paycheck.
At first, it felt impossible and foolish to believe that my value was already there, flowing from a place within me. I mean, who did I think I was, heeding my inner voice? But everyday I chose to believe it, or at least pretend that I did, I realized that true validation doesn't happen when I'm dutifully following someone else's directives. It happens when I'm attuned to my own enterprise. Validation or no validation, a sense of personal agency is the real gift.
I now have an office with a door and I take great pleasure in closing that door. When I told my friend Bill about this, he responded with his typical wit. "You have A Room of One's Own!" About a month later, he gifted me a copy of the classic Virginia Woolf book for Christmas. The book sits atop my freshly painted bookcase that houses poetry and craft books. It's a reminder to keep going, especially when pangs of self-consciousness strike and I wonder when the authorities are going to show up. It's a cue to get back to work, word after word, amid the slew of inner critics. One of my main inner critics, a woman I've named Barb, is especially nasty. She's bitter and boring and has forgotten how to have fun. On my more evolved days, I invite her into the writing process and serve her a strong martini, politely suggest she chill the hell out, and say, "It's all going to be okay!" Then, I point myself back to Woolf’s observation that "literature is strewn with the wreckage of those who have minded beyond reason the opinion of others." Also, that there's "no gate, no lock, no bolt that you can set upon the freedom of my mind." And by the way, "who shall measure the heat and violence of a poet's heart caught and tangled in a woman's body?"
Recommended Reads
Speaking of a poet's heart tangled in a woman's body...I've been reading the work of Dorianne Laux, and WHOA. Her craft book, The Poet's Companion, is one of my favorites, but I'd never read her poetry collections, just a few poems here and there. Her collection, What We Carry, is stunning. If you're craving accessible, gritty, and deeply tender poems that hollow you out in the very best way, then you'll love her work.
Also, I have to admit that I never thought I'd become an Audible subscriber. I'm not an auditory learner and I usually check out mentally when I'm listening to podcasts. However, after cycling through all the stages of mother-as-Uber-driver grief, I've finally accepted that a majority of my life right now is spent shuttling teens around, especially as a travel volleyball parent. If I want to read, I'd better "read" in the car.
I crossed the Audible threshold last month with a brilliant memoir called The Year of The Horses by Courtney Maum. Maum reads the book herself, which hooked me. Getting to listen to an author read their own story adds another layer of expression and enjoyment. Knowing I could return to the story via headphones or car speakers, I came to look forward to my long drives, rudimentary chores, and slow walks with my dog, who likes to stop and sniff everything. Maum's book met me right where I'm at: a middle-age mom and writer with a history of insomnia and depression, making sense of her past while endeavoring to live more fully, freely, and sensually in the present. Maum returns to her childhood love of riding horses as a means to reconnect with herself. When I finished the book, I felt like I'd lost a dear pet. I had to grieve the loss, to cherish the things I loved before I could move onto another literary animal.
Which leads me to the last book on this month's list, my current beloved creature: Surrender: 40 Songs, One Story by Bono. I'm not usually a sucker for celebrity memoirs, but after two friends recommended this one, I had to check it out. I have to say, if you're going to listen to any book on Audible, listen to this one. Bono is a vocal artist, after all, and he folds music into his raspy, masculine, Irish-accented narration. The book is like a period piece, transporting me back to my 1980s childhood, sitting on the floral sofa in our suburban Atlanta living room, watching the music video for "I Still Haven't Found What I'm Looking For" on VH1 with my teenage babysitter. I'm only on chapter nine, but so far I'm struck by Bono's poetic voice, his infectious irreverence, and a soulfulness more profound than any church service I've attended.
Pubs & Updates
I'm thrilled, deeply grateful, and still a little shocked that an excerpt of my memoir manuscript was chosen as the 2nd place winner of the Jeff Sharlet Memorial Award for Veterans and will be published in the spring edition of The Iowa Review. You can read the announcement here! In the next newsletter, I hope to provide a link to either purchase the print edition or read online.
This winter/spring term, I'm teaching another round of The Memoir Studio for The Muse Writers Center. I'm also excited to take part in poetry seminars for Wounded Warrior Project and Tidewater Arts.
Lastly, when I started Bodies of Thought last summer, I wasn't sure what kind of writing frequency I could sustain. Between teaching and other writing projects, I've realized that a bi-monthly/quarterly newsletter is more aligned with my actual capacity right now. So, stay tuned, just with a little less frequency, and as always, please forgive typos. I'm so grateful to each of you for regularly reading and subscribing!
I'll close with this gorgeous Dorianne Laux poem, which felt so personal, as my oldest daughter turns 16 next week and each day yields an invitation to let go a little bit more.
