A Condo of One’s Own

Many years ago, I self-published a book. I was single and newly unemployed for reasons beyond my control. At first, I panicked since I had not planned for my situation, but I decided to take the opportunity and write the book I had in mind for the past few years.

Being so empty with my schedule, I was able to immerse myself in the project. I was unexpectedly impressed by what came out of me — I knew I was a creative person in many ways — I used to be a dancer and an entrepreneur and was always up to something new. But I wasn’t sure if I was a writer. However somehow during those focused months the words abundantly flowed, and I was very proud of the quality I was able to produce given my first attempt at writing a major work. It wasn’t perfect and I’ve evolved since then, but at the time it exceeded my expectations.

The book took a year or so to complete and when I was done publishing and marketing, the whole long process had completely burned me out. I thought I might never write again, so exhausting had the journey been. But I had enjoyed it as well and I had so much more to say — I prayed that my creative itch would eventually come back.

It did. I got the urge to write again a few years later. I thought it might go even smoother this time since I had already climbed such steep learning curves with my first attempt. But it was the opposite — I was stuck. I couldn’t seem to write anything. I did make a few forced tries since I had read that writer’s block can sometimes be overcome simply by showing up to one’s desk and working one’s way through shitty first drafts. My favorite author, Liz Gilbert, had said as much in one of her TED Talks.

But that didn’t seem to apply here. Try as I might, I couldn’t get back the creative, cockeyed genius that had flowed through me a few years ago. I couldn’t figure out what had happened. Some things had changed from before — I had just gone through a few health problems, I was spending time in a new relationship, and I had started a business. But I still had plenty of time to write and my financial situation was even better than before, so I couldn’t quite put my finger on which factor was the culprit in blocking my progress.

I resigned myself to the possibility that my creative writing days might simply be over, due to age, health, work, or perhaps a one-time passing fluke.

Then a few years later I separated from my partner. He was still my best friend and we’d meet several times a week . . . but we no longer lived together. I was single again and decided to buy my first home — a condo.

And voila! My cockeyed creative genius was back! What was going on? I realized that I finally had my answer.

What came to mind was the classic essay by Virginia Woolf, A Room of One’s Own. I remembered reading it somewhere in school, and I began to think that perhaps this brilliant woman from almost 100 years ago had insights into the very problems that seemed to be affecting me a century later. Ms. Woolf famously discussed the lack of publishings by women, and how men historically were the majority of known authors because they simply had the time and finances and freedom to be so. She compared the lives of a fictional Julia Shakespeare, the imagined sister of William Shakespeare, who is told to mend socks or do housework every time she tries to pick up a book. In the narrative, Julia has the same brilliant talents as her famous brother, but Ms. Woolf illustrates how the sister is frustrated at every turn in her creative endeavors. Finally, the essay shows Julia pregnant and dead and buried at an unmarked spot when she tries to run away from an early arranged marriage and fulfill her dreams — in stark comparison to her male counterpart.

Rather dramatic I know, and certainly not applicable in the exact same way to my circumstances. But as I thought over the past six years about why my creativity had not been forthcoming while living with someone, I realized that there were some similarities. I was the main cook and housekeeper in the relationship, trying to keep up with three homemade meals and tidying the house. I also happened to be the more organized and financially savvy one so I also did the bills, taxes, and investments. My partner did contribute to the home as well — took my car for oil changes, got the groceries — and because of that I had as much free time as when I had been single. But I was much more on my toes when answerable to another person. I realized that was the problem — the stress of having to share my daily space with someone stifled the long stretches of time and freedom of mind that I needed to let my inner genius flourish.

When I had first settled into my new condo, I didn’t have hopes for returning back to my former writer self since it had been so many years that I had lived with writer’s block. I didn’t even try for a few months. Then one day I found myself with a completely empty schedule with no anticipation of having to make dinner for someone, or stopping at five when they came home, or hanging out with them in the evening watching TV. It was just me, myself, and I, and so I picked up the pen to try again. And all of a sudden, where before I painfully cranked out a few hundred words every few weeks with shitty first draft quality, now I was banging out marvelously polished versions of multiple articles with thousands of words in the peace and quiet of my new condo. I had long swaths of time where I had nothing to do but write, and write I did, and I continue to this day.

My solitude allows me to go with the natural flow of my body, if it’s tired I let it sleep, if I don’t feel like cooking, I order out. If I want to binge-write for 8 hours without stopping, I can. It’s amazing how distracting it can be to live with someone, especially if the two of you have different work styles and habits. I knew I wasn’t functioning at my peak in my prior environment, but the extent of that wasn’t as evident to me until I was on my own and could see the amazing contrast.

Virginia Woolf was right, most women, or even men, need financial security and a room of their own in order to be able to write or do something creative to the fullest of their ability. Maybe not literally, but figuratively speaking. If not a separate condo, then at least a quiet space and stress-free, empty swaths of time.

Some can work miracles with a lot less, there are many admirable authors who manage to publish regularly despite their busy schedules and families. The author of Zen and the Art for Motorcycle Maintenance, an impressively thick and famous book, got up at 5 AM every morning to write, along with other mini-steps of progress during his lunch breaks at his full-time job. It took him ten years to complete the book because he was so busy. But for many of us binge writers, small snippets of time and a cluttered mind are not enough to foster one’s full creative potential.

I’m not opposed to getting into another relationship again, indeed I’m certainly hoping I won’t be single for all of my life. But I’ve decided that I’m going to try and keep this condo as a getaway spot, even if I do find someone and end up living with them again. It doesn’t matter how perfect they are — it’s not their fault. I just believe the awareness that I am sharing space with someone and accommodating their needs and rhythms will affect my ability to free my mind completely.

My condo may be mostly unused if I do move away, and I may end up deciding it’s not worth keeping it. But if I can afford to still own it, I will use it as my writer’s cave, my hideaway, my creative cubby. I want to be able to come here several times a year to detox, recharge, and churn out new and intense writing pieces that I may not be able to do as effortlessly when living with someone.

Or perhaps I could try to rent an Air B&B for a few weeks a year in order to be able to binge-write in peace.

I know I would be immensely lucky if I do end up having any of these options at my disposal. I am sharply aware of the plight of billions around the world who grapple with a lot less. And some might argue that potentially having two homes is excessive and the extra funds are better given to charity. But for me, it’s been an eye-opener to realize that this solo space is a lifeline to a world I thought had disappeared into the folds of my youth. Pursuing creative endeavors is the reason I get out of bed every morning, and without it I was a dull and bored soul. More than expensive trips, clothes, or cars, I believe I will henceforth covet a condo, or at least a rental getaway of my own. And for now, I am immensely grateful to the Universe that I currently do have it.