At 24, I had a part-time job I loved, teaching English to
adult foreigners. Stimulating as it was, though, my work was not enough. Since
childhood, my dream had been to be published. Every afternoon when my classes
were finished, I’d ride my bicycle back to my apartment and plug away at the
travel article I was writing about my recent trip to England. Occasionally while
pondering a word choice, I’d look up at the row of sparrows sitting on the
telephone line outside of my window.
After weeks of writing and rewriting, I
sold the article to a regional airline magazine. My first article in print! And
byline! For days I glided down spongy streets, giddy with excitement at my
success and at the sense of promise and possibility ahead.
That same month, my
boyfriend and I decided to rent an apartment together. I was ready for our next
stage of commitment, but anxious at the thought of living with a man – even my
man. How would I satisfy my need for a private refuge, where I could brainstorm,
dream, plan, and write?
To my delight Barry supported my desire for a room of my
own, but it turned out he wanted a space of his own, too. (The nerve!) We
couldn’t afford a larger apartment, so we decided to sacrifice the bedroom.
Every night we unrolled our foam mattress on to the carpet in a corner of the
living room and made the bed, reversing the process in the morning. In my
office, I’d type away at my desk, occasionally glancing up for inspiration at my
print of delicately patterned kimonos hanging on a clothesline.
During the six
month we lived in that apartment, I sold every article I wrote. Looking back, I
don’t believe I’d have been a successful had I squeezed my desk into the
bedroom. My office was a metaphor for my sense of professional worth, a
statement announcing that I took myself and my writing seriously, and that I
would not compromise my goals.
In the 45 years since, wherever Barry and I have
lived—homes on both coasts, four states, a Canadian province, and a Mexican
state—I’ve always maintained an independent space. It hasn’t always been a
formal room with four walls and a door: in one small apartment, I had to settle
for a nook bracketed off by a divider. And when my stepdaughter lived with us, I
rented an office.
In all those rooms, I kept publishing: personal essays and
columns, articles and op-eds, reviews and blogs. Throughout my career, I’ve
always focused on what compels me: physical and emotional health, food, home,
travel expat life, family relationships, spirituality. My writing has been
published in the U.S., Canada, Australia, the U.K., South Africa, and Brazil.
How prophetic that I read Virginia Woolf’s essay only a few weeks before moving
into the apartment with my beloved. The timing seems almost eerie. I had no idea
that my mentor’s words would have a such a lifelong effect. The sanctuaries
Woolf inspired in me have not only been places to write, but havens to grow,
evolve, and discover who I am in the world.
Article from Writer’s Digest
July/August 2020
