I write at a desk two gay men helped me pull from a dumpster and load in my truck. The legs are bruised, and its paint’s coming off.
I write in a chair my best friend gave me. Right where my thighs rub, the fabric’s torn and the cushion sticks out.
Stephen King suggested it, so I write in a corner facing a wall.
I also write with music on.
Best of all, I write in my bedroom surrounded by books. Meaning I write inhaling the sweat off the cadence of other writers: blood, tears, and come never hurts either. Sylvia Plath, Marguerite Duras, Lidia Yuknavitch. They took me there, so I write from the edge, sure. Attack of the Fifty Foot Woman. It’s more like a little unraveling. Come back down to Earth.
I write from a trailer I bought from the son of a woman who now lives in a nursing home.
I write from a trailer park.
I write from a desert surrounded by mountains. Republican country, a blue state.
I write far away from anyone who cares about my MFA.
Writing doesn’t make ends meet, but selling insurance does. I did that six years, and then five months after I bought the trailer, my former boss laid me off.
Virginia Woolf said a woman needs money and a room of her own to write. Now I’m an adjunct college professor. I write without health insurance or any financial security at all. I write while my son plays his Xbox. Writing as a single mother is selfish. My son plays his Xbox too much.
I can write walking the dogs, cleaning the catbox, doing laundry, doing dishes, doing yard work, vacuuming and sweeping, cleaning the refrigerator, cleaning the stove, cooking dinner, making breakfast, taking a shower, falling asleep, waking up. Sort of.
When you write in your head, you lose stuff.
In graduate school, a male mentor told me single mothers never finish books. I didn’t want an abortion. My son is the best thing to happen to me. Three books like stillborn births near my feet.
Where did the time go? Portrait of A Female Artist In Middle Age. I write from a place that doesn’t feel sexy, admirable, or brave. Still, my father tries to convince me I could write a bestselling novel and become rich and famous one day.
“No, I won’t,” I tell him.
“Why do you do it then?” He wants the answer like everyone else.
“Love,” I say. After all, when was there time for a social life? Writing is my boyfriend, girlfriend, husband, wife.
So here’s where I write. If I live into my nineties or suffer a stroke like my grandmother, my son will have to put me into a nursing home. But if I’m still writing, I won’t die alone.
18 responses
“But if I’m still writing, I won’t die alone.”
I love that. Thank you.
This is f@#king great.
I have a desk in front of a window looking out at a city street, with my research books, lots of Coltrane and Davis, and extra printer cartridges. I have “On Writing” by Stephen King. I’m cooking dinner on Thanksgiving, but I have blocked out most of December to try and finish my book. No gifts, no cooking, just writing and reading. I think it will be great!
you lose an awful lot by painting in your head, too. <3
wow. this is incredibly depressing.
Depressing? Really? I loved this. It comforted me and made me feel human. Is it depressing because writing never gets you anywhere? It never gets you anywhere except where you are.
Thank you, Alana.
L. <3. V. E.
Write on, girl.
How and where writers write, especially those who care for children has been always been hotly debated, ever since Cyril Connolly said “There is no more sombre enemy of good art than the pram in the hallway,†back in 1938. Booker winner M.J.Hyland scoffs at Connolly’s preciousness, saying she writes with two kids jumping and crawling all over her. James Joyce wrote at the kitchen table with the 12 kids hovering. But he had Mrs Joyce! We must keep writing, however or wherever, and all will be well, I say, as I yell at noisy, filthy teenagers and farewell hubby to a real job, just a little too briskly. Have a look at where famous writers write: http://www.guardian.co.uk/books/series/writersrooms
Fantastic. Exactly what I needed to read today. Thank you.
@nikki – huh? i didn’t say i’m depressed; i said the article to me was depressing – the tone or something. it just left me feeling blah.
This. “When you write in your head, you lose stuff.” So true, Alana, so true. Fun to read this today.
Wonderfully written and well said! I’m sorry the stuffing is sticking
out of the chair. Congrats! #19 is the best number now. <3
“But if I’m still writing, I won’t die alone.” Yesyesyes. This is beautiful, Alana.
Betsy, yes, that’s what I was trying to work out. Why someone might find it depressing. Because it struck me in a very different way.
Loved this.
Lovely, but – yes – depressing.
Beautiful, like always.
Love really is what it all comes down to.
Thank you for this.
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