I’m a homebody — always have been, probably always will be. I feel most comfortable, most like myself, when I’m at home. It comes as no big surprise, then, that my best writing happens when I am safely tucked away in the cozy cranny that is my house.
Virginia Woolfe probably said it best: “A woman must have money and a room of her own if she is to write fiction.” What she neglected to mention, however, is that a woman (or man for that matter, let’s not be sexist here) who writes fiction also needs time — and lots of it.
For people like me, who really love to write, finding the time to create fun plots and funny characters isn’t the problem. We write before, after, and sometimes during our day jobs, on the weekends, and even in the midst of a somewhat longer-than-usual trip to the bathroom. No, finding the time to write is not the problem at all. It’s finding the time to do anything besides writing that is the crux of concern.
Take for example, my own sweet “room of one’s own,” my lovely little apartment. It has served me well during my writing journey, offering me silent sanctuary and certain stability. I am fortunate enough, thanks to my position as a day job slave, to maintain the funds necessary to pay rent and to purchase all the little products and doo-dads (bleach spray, sponges, rubber plungers ect.) that are needed to keep the place ship-shape and Bristol fashion — except that I don’t.
And why? Because I’m a woman on a mission. I have a story, the first of many, to tell, to write. I don’t have time to clean. Virginia Woolfe would have been proud of me. That is, of course, assuming that she would not have been too busy being disgusted…