Someone
messaged me on Facebook—one of those mass messages sent by a stranger to a
bunch of other strangers—asking if I’d contribute to her blog about “Sacred
Writing Spaces.” Well, I had to go be overcharged for a pre-peeled orange at
Whole Foods and get my Chakras aligned (I’d had a blowout earlier on the
highway and had to have one of them replaced) before I could answer. Maybe
Mercury was in retrograde, but I wasn’t feeling it. I wrote her back and said I
didn’t really think I had anything to say she’d want to hear, in the politest
way possible, though I thanked her for asking. The truth is, after publishing a dozen books with a couple more
on the way, I don’t have a Sacred Writing Space. I used to, back when I didn’t
actually write or have a life. But I’m a single dad, working three jobs, living
in a cramped apartment I can barely afford.
I write when I can, where I can, and with whatever time I can scrounge.
The
idea of a Sacred Writing Space reminds me of those people who drive three
blocks to the gym to run on a treadmill, the kind of people who buy special
pans to cook eggs. It stinks of bourgeois privilege and spiritual laziness. But
wait, says you, how is a Sacred Writing Space spiritually lazy? It’s a
spiritual space; it’s got the word “sacred” in it! Well I’m sorry to have to
tell you this, but no, it’s not. In the same way that one doesn’t need to go to
church to be religious, that church can actually get in the way of spirituality sometimes, one doesn’t need a sacred writing space to be a writer.
The idea that it’s essential—she didn’t ask if I had one, she assumed it. All real
writers must have one, right?—is damaging because it’s setting up a situation
in which this space becomes a crutch. If I can’t get away from the world and
focus on my Art, well, I can’t be a writer. It’s more of a status symbol than a
tool.
Now,
I’m not saying the opposite is true, that a person who has an SWS isn’t a “real,”
OG writer, though I may be implying that I can beat them at arm wrestling. But
you know what? People who do, they’re doing fine in life. They’ve had some
breaks. They don’t need to be coddled, so let’s set them aside. Maybe they
worked hard for it, and that’s great. Go sit in it and enjoy. Have a scone. I’m
talking about the implication that it’s necessary, that a person can’t write or
do any kind of art as part of their normal, let’s be honest, working class,
lives. I reject this idea, not just because of philosophical differences, but
because I’ve had to. I don’t have time to sit for five hours while the morning
light makes up its mind to flutter in through my hand-made curtains (ordered
from Etsy) in my Writing Nook, as I sip coffee whose beans have passed through
the digestive system of Venezuelan monkeys and been sifted out by workers paid
a fair wage—though really, what would be a fair wage for that, one wonders? I
write in the living room when my daughter has finally gone to sleep, while my
own eyes droop, and I know I’m going to pay for it tomorrow. It means I don’t
get to read as much as I’d like, go to movies, ever, or just relax. I write on
my lunchbreak, a sandwich in one hand, typing with the other, ruining the
keyboard, I’m sure, with the crumbs. I jot down ideas longhand in the parking
lot while I wait for my shift to start and passersby look at me strangely.
Sometimes I don't write because I don't have time. There’s an implied bias in the idea of an SWS, that I’m not a real writer
because of this, that I’m somehow lesser. And I’m not just talking about me. I’m
doing okay. I’m having a scone, as we speak. I’m talking about women throughout
history who weren’t born rich, who were expected to dedicate their lives to
others. The idea of an SWS might seem like a reaction to that—now, they have
time and can focus on their own pursuits--but you know what? There are still
plenty of women, and men, and non-gender identifying people, who haven’t
achieved that kind of luxury. How many of them might be encouraged to steal some time to write
if they only thought it was legitimate? I have known them. I have met them. I
have loved them. I have been them, people who thought you have to go to college
to be a writer, you have to have been born in a certain place, you have to have
time, because those are the prevailing myths. They’re the ones I care about, and their stories, I think, are a hell of
a lot more interesting than some time-travelling lycanthropy romance or Great American
Novel written in a Sacred Writing Space by someone who didn’t have to fight for
every second it took to write it.
I could really go for a pre-peeled orange
right now, though.
-CL Bledsoe
