UPSTAIRS, DOWN THE HALL, SECOND DOOR ON THE LEFT
Finally, dear reader, things have returned to normal – whatever that may be. The wife and I are settled in to the new temporary abode and external communications have been re-established. Hence, I shall resume my earlier practice of writing, the one so attentively followed before the fixated ramblings about real estate miseries.
Though, as I sit down to write, I find it once again difficult to write, as though some practiced muscle memory has been forgotten. The words feel far more elusive than they did two months ago, before the world began interfering with my newfound writing space. In fact, I fear I am grown a little afraid of writing, as I was five months ago today when I first started writing here.
Actually, the circumstances seem somehow similar. That first day I was stuck in the apartment – snowed in by a February blizzard – feeling a bit scared to be alone. The wife was off at a conference and I was alone in the apartment for the first time since moving back after the stint in Iowa. My environment, both outside and in, seemed daunting and somehow ominous. I, to put it plainly, was a mite twitchy.
On that night I was frightened because I was snowed into a strange place, but today, as I sit here struggling to induce these words into being meaningful again, I find myself feeling oddly similar. It is not due to the new surroundings of this two-room apartment; it is more elemental than that. While the environment is no longer foreign – quite the opposite, it may be too familiar if anything – I again find that all too present tic that alerts me to my own discomfort.
As I am attempting to write today I find myself taking frequent breaks to forestall the awkward battle with syntax and grammar by reading Virgina Woolf’s “A Room of One’s Own.” A while back, as the walls of the last apartment were closing in on me, a good friend – the one you, dear reader, may know as the Houseguest – suggested I read this essay. And, perhaps, my using it to defer writing only underscores my affinity Woolf’s assertion regarding women and fiction, that “a woman must have money and a room of her own if she is to write fiction.”
You see, at the moment I have neither of these. In this case I mean that I have neither money nor a room of my own, but I suppose I also do not fulfill the bases for Woolf’s writing in that I am neither a woman nor am I particularly attempting to write fiction, though that is a word – fiction – that I am never quite sure about. Or, more to the point, I am seldom positive whether or not I am writing fiction, whether I intend to or not, or rather, whether I can help it or not.
Though, perhaps I should not be writing about this anxiety that I feel. You, dear reader, may be someone looking to employ me, or might be some day down the road. Perhaps it would be inopportune for you to read of my doubt, of this tremble I feel when I sit down to write, of the paralysis that overcomes my limbs as I worry myself sick in cycles of self-censorship because of what you might think of me and the fact that I internalize my unemployment so.
But no, this writing is not meant to be a diary. I don’t think my anxiety is any of your business, nor do I believe it is of any particular interest, in and of itself. But today it is my writing: that is, the very act of writing this afternoon is so fraught with doubt that my very fingers jitter to the point that I am finding it difficult to hit the “I” instead of the “U” on my keyboard.
It is not that I have no money, or that I have no room, but they are not my own; I am reliant upon another for this space, this keyboard, these words. It is not that I wish for anything that is wholly my own: a super-individuality, a hyper-possession, or some ur-ego space; I have quite happily attached myself to another with whom I wish to share my life, my things, my space. I do not wish to make a complaint; my life, by all reasonable standards, is rather extraordinary, in fact. But there resides within me this doubt, this concern, a lingering need for that room of my own, or at the least to contribute to the retention thereof.
But now I fear I veer too close to complaint yet again. This is not about my feelings of fiscal impotence; today I write about writing as I return to writing again. More and more I find myself conflating my career concerns with my writing, exerting a pressure from the former upon the latter, and it is not just my fretting whether you, dear reader, may have some form of authority that you could lord over me, or that you may think less of me for these lapses in resolve and manly bearing. Now I find myself sitting down to write with pretensions, or at least ambitions. Perhaps this or that piece will be The One. As I shape out a thought, a sentence, I wonder if this one might be publishable, and if that might be enough to alter the direction of the path I am on—not that I can see particularly well where that path currently leads.
But here I am anyway, stutteringly pressing forward with rebellious fingers and uncertain mind, writing. The room will come, as will, undoubtedly, the ability to contribute. I will remember how to write; I will grow far nimbler in thought and act. The anxiety will pass and new ones will rise before me for reasons that have little to do with any particular job or room. Today, though, I will focus simply on finding the right letters on the keyboard.
Though, as I sit down to write, I find it once again difficult to write, as though some practiced muscle memory has been forgotten. The words feel far more elusive than they did two months ago, before the world began interfering with my newfound writing space. In fact, I fear I am grown a little afraid of writing, as I was five months ago today when I first started writing here.
Actually, the circumstances seem somehow similar. That first day I was stuck in the apartment – snowed in by a February blizzard – feeling a bit scared to be alone. The wife was off at a conference and I was alone in the apartment for the first time since moving back after the stint in Iowa. My environment, both outside and in, seemed daunting and somehow ominous. I, to put it plainly, was a mite twitchy.
On that night I was frightened because I was snowed into a strange place, but today, as I sit here struggling to induce these words into being meaningful again, I find myself feeling oddly similar. It is not due to the new surroundings of this two-room apartment; it is more elemental than that. While the environment is no longer foreign – quite the opposite, it may be too familiar if anything – I again find that all too present tic that alerts me to my own discomfort.
As I am attempting to write today I find myself taking frequent breaks to forestall the awkward battle with syntax and grammar by reading Virgina Woolf’s “A Room of One’s Own.” A while back, as the walls of the last apartment were closing in on me, a good friend – the one you, dear reader, may know as the Houseguest – suggested I read this essay. And, perhaps, my using it to defer writing only underscores my affinity Woolf’s assertion regarding women and fiction, that “a woman must have money and a room of her own if she is to write fiction.”
You see, at the moment I have neither of these. In this case I mean that I have neither money nor a room of my own, but I suppose I also do not fulfill the bases for Woolf’s writing in that I am neither a woman nor am I particularly attempting to write fiction, though that is a word – fiction – that I am never quite sure about. Or, more to the point, I am seldom positive whether or not I am writing fiction, whether I intend to or not, or rather, whether I can help it or not.
Though, perhaps I should not be writing about this anxiety that I feel. You, dear reader, may be someone looking to employ me, or might be some day down the road. Perhaps it would be inopportune for you to read of my doubt, of this tremble I feel when I sit down to write, of the paralysis that overcomes my limbs as I worry myself sick in cycles of self-censorship because of what you might think of me and the fact that I internalize my unemployment so.
But no, this writing is not meant to be a diary. I don’t think my anxiety is any of your business, nor do I believe it is of any particular interest, in and of itself. But today it is my writing: that is, the very act of writing this afternoon is so fraught with doubt that my very fingers jitter to the point that I am finding it difficult to hit the “I” instead of the “U” on my keyboard.
It is not that I have no money, or that I have no room, but they are not my own; I am reliant upon another for this space, this keyboard, these words. It is not that I wish for anything that is wholly my own: a super-individuality, a hyper-possession, or some ur-ego space; I have quite happily attached myself to another with whom I wish to share my life, my things, my space. I do not wish to make a complaint; my life, by all reasonable standards, is rather extraordinary, in fact. But there resides within me this doubt, this concern, a lingering need for that room of my own, or at the least to contribute to the retention thereof.
But now I fear I veer too close to complaint yet again. This is not about my feelings of fiscal impotence; today I write about writing as I return to writing again. More and more I find myself conflating my career concerns with my writing, exerting a pressure from the former upon the latter, and it is not just my fretting whether you, dear reader, may have some form of authority that you could lord over me, or that you may think less of me for these lapses in resolve and manly bearing. Now I find myself sitting down to write with pretensions, or at least ambitions. Perhaps this or that piece will be The One. As I shape out a thought, a sentence, I wonder if this one might be publishable, and if that might be enough to alter the direction of the path I am on—not that I can see particularly well where that path currently leads.
But here I am anyway, stutteringly pressing forward with rebellious fingers and uncertain mind, writing. The room will come, as will, undoubtedly, the ability to contribute. I will remember how to write; I will grow far nimbler in thought and act. The anxiety will pass and new ones will rise before me for reasons that have little to do with any particular job or room. Today, though, I will focus simply on finding the right letters on the keyboard.
1 Comments:
I'm glad that you've picked up Woolf, who has lots to say on writing -- and, more particularly, the circumstances of writing -- that I think you'll find both resonant and helpful. Incidentally, there's something vaguely Woolfian about the structures and rhythms of the second half of this post; you could find many a worse muse and model than Woolf. The "I"/"U" moment is a particularly nice touch.
The Houseguest is gratified.
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