ManicDDaily

I’ve been thinking today about writer’s block in the context of both Virginia Woolf and James Joyce.  This is, in part, due to the stress inherent in a bifurcated modern life (that is, a life of both struggling writer and struggling person), and, in part, to one daughter telling me about a paper on Dubliners and another,  a course on Woolf.

While, to my mind, the work of each of Woolf and Joyce is incomparably great, both seemed to have difficulties with blocks of a sort–Woolf sinking into terrible depressions, Joyce into (some would say) incomprehensibility.  But I don’t want to write about their blocks today; what I’ve been thinking of were their specific devices for freeing blocks, devices for which they are respectively emblematic.

In Woolf’s case, I refer to the idea of having a room of one’s own; that is, space, time, and the confidence to work from.  She wrote about the particular need of women writers for these resources, and, while I believe women still have a harder time than men (women having to fight with themselves, as well as the outside world), getting a “room of one’s own” is hard for any struggling writer.

When I think of a writing tool important to Joyce, I think of self-imposed exile; Stephen Dedelus, leaving home, family, Ireland.    Exile represents freedom–from the bosom of the status quo, from one’s accepted identity, from responsibility to, and for, the feelings and well-being of loved ones, freedom even from the background noise and clutter of loved ones.

Exile also represents action, the conscious making of a commitment to one’s work.

I am probably not the best advisor on these points, as I (i) have rarely had a room of my own in my adult life; and (ii) can’t even bear imagining leaving my family.  I do think it is important to keep some form of these tools in mind, however, if you are a struggling writer or artist.

First, re Woolf:   A physical space of your own may not be possible,especially if you live in New York City, or some other high rent district.  Your private “room”, as it were,  may need to be on your laptop, in a notebook, in the simple habit of writing.  Strangely, this interior space may best be initially framed in public. It may be easier to block out the noises and antics of strangers than of loved ones (for example, music in a café may bother you considerably less than the TV in your living room.)

Don’t be picky.   Try making a room out of any quiet moment–a relatively uncrowded subway car, a bench in a museum, a wait for an appointment.

Carry your room with you.   Get a notebook of a size and shape that you like, buy a large number of good pens, and keep them in an easy-to-access spot—your purse or coat pocket rather than backpack.

Once you have your room (your writing habit),  go into it frequently, like a child for whom you’ve just built a fort or teepee.  Take delight in how easily you can enter, then exit, then enter again.   Enjoy the view, looking both in and out.   Don’t bother to wipe your feet.

“Exile” comes in the form of realism.  Know when you are simply not going to be able to work at home, and get your computer or notebook and drag them and yourself somewhere else.  Treat yourself to a cab if your computer is heavy, or, better yet, treat yourself to a lighter computer.  If you just can’t stand to leave home, pay family members to go to a sports bar.  (Hey!  It’s cheaper than moving to Paris.)  Don’t be afraid to be a little openly irritable, if, inside, you are extremely frustrated.

The point is that it’s possible to get micro-versions of Woolf’s room and Joyce’s exile.  And frankly, a micro-version may be all you are truly able to stomach.

Finally–if your “room” or your “exile” is on your laptop, then keep it truly private, truly remote–i.e. write when you are writing, don’t go online.  (Other than to ManicDDaily!)