A Room of (Almost) My Own
WHEN I was single, I never needed a room of my own. I wrote whenever I wanted, day or night, in my tiny studio apartment, where I lived alone. Drafts of poems and stories and books would be strewn about for days, undisturbed. My clerical job didn’t require me to take work home; I could even write at my desk when business was slow.
My unencumbered writing life changed considerably twenty years ago when I earned a graduate degree and fell in love in the same year. After graduation, my boyfriend—now husband—Jorge and I moved into an apartment together. I soon joined the ranks of adjunct instructors commuting across congested Southern California freeways to teach at community colleges and universities.
My writing suffered.
I used the dinette as an office and stole two or three hours a week to write on our small dining table, when it wasn’t being used for eating, lesson planning, grading papers, paying bills, or other activities. I had difficulty switching from my hectic life into writer mode. My creativity needed to be eased into gear, and I couldn’t escape reminders of the tasks waiting for me to complete—grading, cleaning, and more. I longed for a room of my own where I could shut the door and immerse myself in the world of the piece I was writing. I wanted a room I could decorate to express my eclectic taste and inspire me.
Ten years ago Jorge and I became first-time homeowners. Finally I had a room of my own—almost. We lived in Long Beach, California, where home prices were rising. All we could afford was an old
