I remember the days of starting again. The day I picked up my pen and gave it good whirl, spinning out words that delighted me enough to keep them secret from prying eyes. I didn’t want to share my prose, the deepest thoughts written from my heart, because they were put to rest inside one of my many journals. They were private, but the sheer eloquence of each one brought me back to them over and over, reading in wonder that I had written them. I was such a poetic writer, I thought each time I read the journals. I wrote because I wanted to, because I wanted to express myself, my new love, my feelings about my past. And I wrote it all in the middle of the kind of chaos two toddlers could bring.
Later, I clicked and clacked away at a keyboard, trying desperately to get back that eloquent writer. I couldn’t figure out where she went. Of course, e-mail, surfing the Net, and children (my own and the ones I babysat) distracted me. And I had a one-track mind by then: to sell my writing. Dollar signs were clearly visible in my eyes, if you looked at me just right. I wanted the almighty dollar, and I was willing to write anything to get it. I was also willing to rearrange my house to get what I wanted.
My little workspace grew in a corner of the living room until I brilliantly had the idea to move my sons into one room together, move my bedroom into one of theirs, and create a whole office in the garage. I thought it was a fail-proof plan. Except, it was cold. And lonely. And I couldn’t keep an eye on my work and my kids all at the same time. One or both would suffer.
Some months later, I devised a new plan. The garage was plenty big enough for both my sons to stretch out, and so we moved bedrooms all over again. This new move involved yet another person, when I decided it was only fair that I take the smallest bedroom as my office. And so we all traded rooms again. I was pleased for a while. After all, this new place not only allowed me to see the children playing in backyard without problem, but it was also closer to the center of the busyness of the house – and I could close a door on it, if I wanted.
And then…we all realized this was still bad. With small children, you can’t always show up at the office and make them understand. I spent more days than not simply sitting on my couch and writing longhand or using the AlphaSmart. I needed to be near my family and vice-versa, and as time went on, I not only got used to working with children surrounding me, maybe leaning over my shoulder, but I longed for it.
Our final room changing ended with me right back where I started…in a corner of the living room, in a small space. Because I need my family to be part of my writing process. I need to be able to see them and allow them to see me. And how much room do I need to just be able to write? One does not need to have a room of his or her own to be a writer. One just needs the right attitude, to find the right family comfort level, and to just write.
When you’re a writer, you write. You do so whether you have your own room or not, whether there’s a check attached or not, and you write no matter what anyone else says. I thought I needed to make money in order to be a writer. I thought I needed peace and quiet. I thought I needed a room of my own away from my children. The truth is, all I needed was the desire to write. Desire stays with you, even if the kids are standing over your shoulder, even when cartoons play in the background, even when no one is paying you. It is that desire to write, despite any obstacles that will lead you to the success you dream of.
