For the last 15 years I’ve been labouring under the assumption that when Virginia Woolf said a woman writer required a room of her own she didn’t mean a room so much as part of the kitchen table or a corner in a coffee shop.
I’ve written books on trains and planes, frequently on cramped Aircoaches, speeding through the oh-so-inspiring environs of the M1. I have written in budget hotels, airport bars, service stations and, sometimes, furtively, in the cinema. I say I enjoy writing in the margins of life. In all honesty, I’ve grown accustomed to making do. I’m always contending for more time, more money, more space to write. As I publish book number eight, it’s sobering to admit that I’ve written just about everywhere except in a room of my own.
This situation has recently changed. I’ve bought a new house. I’m reluctant to use the term forever home but, having shifted 3,000 books, I can safely say it will be at least a century before I contemplate moving again.
My new house includes some unique features: a backyard squirrel, a fridge which, having lost the desire to refrigerate, functions as a floodlit cupboard, seven enormous chandeliers. Before you start picturing Southfork, let me assure you this house is just a mid-terrace with notions, but I do have a study now.
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‘I think about Dad while I’m painting and all the friends who’ve offered to help with this room’
What I do not have is a spare room. The second and larger of my bedrooms, I have given over to books. Call me selfish, but it seems infinitely sensible to prioritise the practice which provides me with income, joy and a raison d’être, over the occasional friend in need of a place to crash. It’s taken me years to earn a room of my own and no one’s going to infiltrate its sanctuary. This room is big-windowed and sunny, framed by beautiful trees. It is quiet. I can’t believe how quiet it is. My old house sat at the end of the airport runway and shook at five minute intervals.
When I walk into my study I feel like it’s been waiting for me. I didn’t know a room could do this. Virginia Woolf clearly knew what she was talking about. I intend to write a masterpiece here or, if a bona fide masterpiece isn’t forthcoming, a rake of first drafts with potential, some tax returns and blog posts. I will save a fortune in shop-bought coffee. I’ll never remove my slippers again.
First, I must make this room my own. The current aesthetic is very feminine, very fluffy, Au Naturale circa 1996. It’s not the domain of a serious writer and I’m nothing if not serious, (please see my scowly author pic). Out go the embossed velvet curtains, the motivational art and blush pinks. Sadly, the chandelier has to stay. I can’t afford an electrician to disassemble it.
I loathe this chandelier. I crack my head off it five times a day. Then, two months in, whilst teaching online, I catch a glimpse of it twinkling on my screen. It screams glamour and success. I could be Barbara Cartland in my writing boudoir. The chandelier gets a temporary reprieve.
I paint the walls a custardy yellow. The last time I painted a room, my dad helped. Dad passed away two years ago. As I’m dust sheeting the carpet to save it from the inevitable drips, I have a wee moment of missing him. Together, we’d have made short shrift of these walls. We’d have listened to Springsteen, stopped for frequent cups of tea and talked around the important stuff. I’m sad that he isn’t here. Then, I remember that my kind, supportive father was utterly rubbish at DIY. I recall the time he nailed part of his finger to my wall and the wardrobe, still sitting in my bedroom, minus a dad-fitted door.
I think about Dad while I’m painting and all the friends who’ve offered to help with this room. I’m always grateful for community but I need to labour over this space myself: physically, emotionally, imaginatively. I want every part of this room to be mine.
Turns out, I’m my father’s daughter. My decorating style is slapdash. I get splodges on the ceiling. I try to conceal them with the wrong shade of white. I forgot that white paint comes in multiple shades. I track yellow footprints all over the house. I sit in the paint tray. Don’t ask me how.
For weeks afterwards I show friends the shade I’ve chosen via the paint smears on my watch and fingernails. My arms get tired. I get roller blisters. I can see exactly where I lost my painting mojo. The walls get streaky at a certain point. I experiment with different music to motivate me, (Joy Division = sloth-like, 80s Power Ballads = Jan on speed). The decorating days are good days.
It takes me a week to paint my room. It takes two more to build my bookcases. One’s slantier than the leaning Tower of Pisa. One has a back-to-front shelf. Yet, when I finally get my books arranged, (alphabetically, within genre), and I swivel on my self-built desk chair, (ignoring the fact it doesn’t swivel very well), to take in the fullness of my little kingdom, I’m unbelievably thankful for this room of my own. I built it myself. I earned it. I understand the value of this space.