What She Said

I'm always thinking of Virgina Woolf and her "Room of One's Own." See, artists, I think--me especially--are always struggling with the big questions about what works and what doesn't. The question of whether words are the best possible way to explore an idea, to once and for all break patriarchy, to annihilate capitalism, to touch another person's soul, all these things. I think each of them are real, possible things, and I struggle with the idea that lining up words on paper will actually do any good. These big questions get in the way. They are paralyzing.

So, back to Woolf. I used to think she was full of crap. I knew, and still know, plenty of writers who have children tugging at their knees even as they plod away at their chapters and memoirs, or scrawl notes back and forth on their bus trips to and from the Brooklyn Botanic Garden, for example. Writing doesn't really happen in a "room of your own," but it happens constantly, continuously, even if you want it to or not. But, of course, it occurred to me later--as obvious as this observation is, you still have to arrive at it yourself--this room of your own is really the space in which you have to force yourself to work without hearing these impossible-to-answer questions. (The questions that only lead to more questions, or return you back to the same old questions.)

If you sit down to write, and begin to wonder about how your tiny work of semi-skilled fiction will make any difference in the universe, you'll have no reason to continue. It's not about a physical place as much as mental space--room enough in your own head not to be bogged down by your own hideous bullshit. None of the rationale matters. But all art is like this, in general. Words or paint or opera. Right?

And a person like me, who has his hands is a few different big ideas--sustainable agriculture and localized economy, free political theater in your very own neighborhood, and equipping children to deal with the increasingly impossible future--I wonder sometimes how my writing has anything to do with any of it. I worry about how slow I am. About how I can't seem to move forward. About how sometimes I just don't give a shit about the novel and I'd rather go to the new Chronicles of Narnia movie. About how I want to lay in bed and think about food all day. About whether or not I want it enough. Do you know what I mean when I say, enough?