Tag Archives: a room of one’s own

#228: On the Day After the Election

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Having wept myself to sleep the night before,
I got up and went to work in the school house
where we met in small teams in the library
to plan or do curriculum work or talk about
assessments, where instead I chose to color
with crayons at the table our new librarian
set up for art. It was the only thing I could do.
I colored inside the lines with several different
shades of blue and some pink here and there
while I tried to keep myself together.
Talking to anyone, to any friendly face,
I had to work hard not to break down.

I was thankful when students arrived inside
my room. They gave me a focus, a place to
channel my energies, an opportunity to make
some kind of difference. My 9th graders,
unusually subdued and cooperative, dove with
some enthusiasm into a Sherman Alexie novel,
a novel about race, culture, and class divide,
but a novel, too, about hope. Arnold Spirit Jr.
realizes it feels good to help others, and I could
feel that thought resonating inside the room.
Later, my seniors came in for a study of
A Room of One’s Own, and rather than talk and
have to face the reality of this particular irony
head on, I asked my students to make art,
to talk about what was going on in Virginia
Woolf’s head by drawing it on the page.
Students must have paused for a long time
at the passage about the cat without a tail,
the cat pausing, “as if it too questioned the
universe,” as Woolf realizes that, suddenly,

“Everything was
different”
and
“Nothing was changed”
and yet, “the change was there”
not in substance but in sound.
What did men hum before the election?
What did women hum before the election?
And now what, after?
We carry on. We cling to hope.
We agitate and advocate for what we know is good.
We color, and we do what I found today
to be most healthful, finding comfort in
kindness from others and the kind attention
I could give, a hug I received from my son,
and solace in the words on the page.

 

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Dispatches From Writer’s Camp: A Room Of One’s Own With A View

I offer up a rumination about rooms, on this 5th day of Writer’s Camp for Wallies.  In the best of all possible worlds, if one is a writer, one needs a room of one’s own, but it would also be fine if it provided a view, a good view, of something either internally interesting or externally, something in the way of architecture, decor, design, or natural beauty.  It’s all good if you can get it.  And I have been very fortunate at this year’s writer’s camp to find these kinds of spaces.  Only one day thus far have I been skunked out of the sky room in the science building.  That’s my favorite spot.  It’s up high, three of its four walls are mostly window, looking outside on the campus of Mt. Holyoke and inside to the rest of the science building interior, a wonder of modern, contemporary design.  It’s private and quiet–I can sound my barbaric yawp in there and no one is the wiser–but it does have a kind of fishbowl effect, which is a bit disconcerting, because, while they can’t hear my yawp, anyone can see me in there when they walk around the corner to find the restrooms, and if I know them, and see them, and they see me seeing them, I feel obligated, as do they, to give a little wave. It appears then, that sometimes the view can be distracting.

When writing in my other favorite place, a classroom sometimes all to myself in the same science building, designed in miniature theatre style with tiered rows of tables in an almost complete circle, no one can see me in there and there are no interruptions except for the ones presented to me by the device I’m using to write fiction–my laptop.  After a half hour of reading out loud or typing furiously away on a new passage, I take a rest for a second and then find myself compelled, beckoned, cajoled, teased by the Facebook, by the Huff Post, by the Email, by the Blog.

So, feeling like I’ve been pretty productive this week making strides toward a complete draft of the new novel, I felt what I needed to do today was to allow myself some time to read.  I vowed after lunch to have a technology free afternoon.  I trekked to the library and I left my phone and my computer behind me in the dorm.  For two straight hours, the longest stretch of continuous personal reading time in recent memory, I found myself  back inside the Whiting Alcove in the library.  I’m reading Jane Smiley’s 13 Ways of Looking at the Novel and I read today perhaps the most exquisite and simultaneously straight forward explanation of exactly what this novel thing is, after all, and to the backdrop of a raucous New England thunderstorm.  Now, back in my dorm, the sky is mostly blue and it’s hotter and more humid than hell.

This last writing spot, my dorm room, is my own more than any of these other writing spots could be, at least temporarily, but if I want a view here, I’ve got to look outside, because the room, as dorm rooms often are, is ugly and bare and in need of TLC and wall repair and paint and anything that might make it kind of homey.  I’ve set up shop on top of the built in dresser drawers so I can write standing up, good for my back and convenient for spontaneous dancing. It’s too hot to dance and it’s almost time for dinner and I’ve got to cool down somehow.  Here’s to rooms and to views. Here’s to finding a place to write.  Here’s to intentional breaks from screens, even when those screens are helping us create something good.  Here’s to books.  Here’s to the novel.  Here’s to loved ones back home who blessed these schemes of ours.  All abundance and gratitude.

 

A room with a view.

A room with a view.

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A room of one’s own with a view.

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A view to a room.

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Another room of one’s own.

Another view from another room.

Another view from another room.

 

dorm room without a view

Dorm room without a view. Or: dorm room, stand up writing desk, with scotch.

 

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