A Room of My Own

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I have always been a writer.

Ever since I scribbled my first poem on the back of an envelope.

I have also been other things, and other things always.

But this is about the writer.

I have written poems, letters, essays. For years, these were “on the side”, with academic writing taking centre-stage, or translating taking all the energy.

In 2014, I quite my academic career. I had another child. I translated and wrote poems. In 2017, I joined a part-time training in eurythmy, from which I graduated in 2022. From then on, I taught eurythmy at a small Steiner-Waldorf school in England one day a week. For three days a week I was part of a thriving stage group. For three days a week I was away from my family.

I thought I had finally “arrived”, I was doing artistic work, I was moving, I was living my dream.

Until my second child got ill last spring. I managed to do the premiere of our programme, a second performance. On the eve before the tour, it was clear that I had to pull out, I was needed at home.

It was also clear that the time had come to stop running away from myself and the childhood trauma I was carrying around with me.

Months into staying at home and working through “stuff” with an amazing therapist myself, my child was no better. I saw that for now, I needed to shift priorities. What was I going to do? Who was I going to be?

And suddenly I knew I wanted to sit quietly at home. I wanted to write. My heart yearned to be a writer.

Even while I was uncovering this desire in a call with my therapist, I started tidying the desk which my husband had started to take over. After the session I took a scrap piece of paper and mapped out a simple daily routine that would allow me to write and feed my writing consistently. Over the next few days I slipped effortlessly into that routine.

The challenges soon became apparent, too. My husband came back from his work trip. He works from home whenever his tasks allow and we only have this one desk — and the dining table. Sharing space. Sharing time.

As we had done for so long.

We had moved to England in 2005, only days after getting married. Barely able to afford to rent a Victorian mid-terrace house in Lewes, we explored the South Downs on foot and by rail. I used to run along the river Ouse, knowing that Virginia Woolf had ended her life in its waters.

I remember visiting Monk´s House where she lived and wrote, and I remember feeling intensely jealous of her room. A writer’s room. A room of her own. Looking out onto the breath-taking gardens, everything seemed just perfect. There was a desk. And there was a bed. She had a room of her own.

It was what I wanted.

I did not read her essay “A Room of One’s Own” until recently, but the title and the memory of Woolf’s actual room planted a seed of a wish in my heart.

But there we were, sharing a desk in the tiny spare bedroom which also held our wardrobes, my cello and a music stand. It was office and practice space. During the winter, the storage heater warmed that room until midday if I was lucky.

When we moved into our present house a few years ago, we gave up claims to any spare bedroom so that each of the children could have their own room. After all, my husband had an office at his workplace, and I was concentrating on my eurythmy training. Space to move in the open plan kitchen and dining room seemed more important than a space to write. The desk was pushed into a corner in our attic bedroom, wedged between the wardrobe and shelves.

It is where I write.

We have put up a divider in our bedroom so there is something of a study or office part and a bedroom part. Most of the time, I can claim the desk for myself. It is something.

I drop off my youngest at school, start a load of laundry, and I write.

I light a candle and some incense, and I write.

Most days I sit down for my daily writing practice feeling giddy with joy.

I´ve practised with stories and poems, and pushed myself with NaNoWriMo, emerging with a first draft of a novel on November 30^th. It is full of plot holes and dripping with clichés, but I am proud of it. I can´t wait to return to it over the next few days to revise and rework.

Yet I find that it is still absolutely true what Virginia Woolf wrote nearly 100 years ago - a woman needs “money and a room of her own if she is to write fiction.”

I have neither of those.

I am still sharing the desk with my husband, and I do not have any money to call my own. My husband never questions what I do with the money he earns, but I cannot help but feel restrained by the image of the traditional family set-up where he is the breadwinner, and the bank calls me a “dependant”. I still feel restricted by the fact that there is no space in the house which I can call my own.

But I choose to write.

As I work on my various projects while life unfolds around me, I would like to establish this space as a virtual Room of My Own.

As much as I need space and solitude as a writer, I also need connection. And so I invite you into this space. I hope we can share each other’s journeys here in a gentle, meaningful way.

Over the coming weeks and months, I will share with you my routines, techniques I have found helpful. The ups and downs of life as I make my way. Some things about my specific challenges and joys. More about my background. Why I identify as a multipotentialite and what that means for my current creative choices.

I might start with diving deeply into Virginia Woolf’s essay “A Room of One’s Own.”

I am aiming to write a free newsletter once a month. For paid supporters, I am planning to share more personal “Love Letters” on a weekly basis. When my situation allows, I am planning to facilitate live “write-with-me sessions”. I will also offer research strategies for writers and 1:1 sessions where I help you research for your specific writing project. This part is still very much emerging.  

I would love to hear about your resonances on space and seasons as a creative. Inspired? Please consider sharing this post with a friend.

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If you become a paid subscriber to support me towards “money and a room of my own”, you make my world.  

To each and every one of you, thank you for being here.