Do all that you can with what you have, in the time you have, in the place you are.
-Nkosi Johnson
I’m always looking for an ideal writing place, and I’m always dreaming of finding an ideal home. I’ve written in a lot of different places, and I’ve lived in many places also.
When I lived in Italy, I could write by a window, where I could see streets, ancient rooftops, and flowers. There were fewer distractions there. I could often hear loud voices and children playing, but those sounds didn’t bother me. In the New York apartment where I’m currently living, I look out on fairly old buildings, too. Not as old as the Italian ones of course. But here I need dim light and as much quiet as possible. Traffic noises are more bothersome than people yelling to each other in Italian or the sound of children’s laughter.
I place myself in various parts of the apartment, moving around depending on what I’m writing. Sometimes I write with pen and paper, sometimes on a computer.
For the best concentration, I usually write in the bedroom, where the thick glass in the windows makes the frequent blare of sirens and thudding of passing trucks more tolerable. With the hum of a fan, I can forget where I am and immerse myself in an imaginal world. Facing a wall, I stand with my laptop on a sort of cutting board table that was meant to be in the kitchen—only my kitchen is too small for it to fit. I bought the table to help me be a better cook—but instead use it for writing. It works pretty well.
Still, I yearn for the ideal—in a home, in a space, in the writing of a book. The act of any kind of creation is the striving to make into material form some idea that we carry within us. And we want to make that form an ideal one. I have a vague idea that I want to put into words, so that it will reveal itself more fully. Only by the process of writing will I begin to know what it is I want to say. Although it can take a very long time to craft this form, the hope is that the words will finally show me an ideal version of my idea.
At the same time, I have an idea of the ideal environment in which this ideal piece of writing will come into existence. A part of me believes that if only I could find the best environment in which to work, I could achieve my goal. If only I could write facing a view of the sea, and watch the waves roll onto the shore—if only I had a house in the country, with silence and trees…if only I were still in Italy, in a small village up in the mountains…yes, then, I could be a great writer.
Then why didn’t I stay in Italy? Why don’t I move now? As we all know, life is complicated. It’s a matter of sacrificing one thing for another. For now, I need to be in New York, and I like the security of having others in the same building, with brightly lit streets for added protection. New York apartments are hard to find.
But I know I’m kidding myself. Oscar Wilde, O. Henry, Jean Genet, Ezra Pound, and others have written while in prison. Some writers cover their eyes intentionally to better access their imaginations. Still other writers like to write in noisy cafes. Maybe if I found myself in an ideal writing place, I’d have to find another reason for being dissatisfied with whatever I write. When I read a book by someone whom I consider to be “a master writer,” I wonder why I’m so concerned. What’s the point of my writing anything? But I need to keep writing anyway.
So I write because my daemon, my guiding spirit, impels me to continue, because I have the desire to put my ideas into material form. I can imagine myself in my ideal writing place: I can hear ocean waves in the thudding trucks, a seagull’s cry in the sound of sirens, and I can close my eyes and see the trees. I can even put on headphones and listen to the sounds of crickets, birds, and whales.
I’ll continue to look for an ideal writing place—or at least a quieter one. But whether I ever find it or not, if my imaginative powers are strong enough, I will have arrived. And in the process, I may also have managed to write—perhaps not ideally—the idea I wanted to express. 