Writer's dilemma #4: Making space for my words

On the battle for balance between writing and everything else

My writing desk in Paris — I built it as a declaration of my intention.

Life will always be too full if you let it. There will always be something threatening to creep into the space that you’ve preserved for another part of you. Something that stubbornly advances, till you stand in its path and tell it where the line is.

It has been an ongoing battle to preserve the space for my writing — to flourish in this identity and to live it authentically while also being everything else I am. I have always written, and in the last few years, I have come to accept that I am a writer— not as a hobby or idle interest, but as an identity, a way of life. As a constant truth in my mind that colours my dreams of the future, that sits alongside everything else I want to be and have. You see, it takes up space in my mind, in my thoughts, but it struggles for space in the real world.

In the most obvious sense, I had to dedicate physical space to my writing. For the last eight years, I’ve had a table that was meant specifically for my words. I left one behind in London. A carpenter built one in my childhood room in Lagos for my holidays at home. And then I moved to Paris two years ago, entering a blank space, an unfurnished flat, and knowing exactly where my desk would go— right in front of the window. I picked a simple wooden structure with many drawers, to further store my words; and I met it at the bottom of my stairs, in the form of packaged planks of wood where the delivery driver had lazily left it. I had to be determined from that moment — to lug this package up the stairs by myself, heavier than anything I have ever carried; heaving as I went up step by step, scared that it would slip and crush me. I laid out the planks on the floor and decided that I would build it with my own hands. Over the course of the next few frustrated and confused hours, I created this precious space for my words, using my legs for support where another pair of hands may have helped. Now, I use this desk solely for writing — I work at my day job from the dining table in another room. This desk teems with the energy of my intention, and every time I sit at it, it feels symbolic. As Amy Key expressed in ‘Arrangements of Blue’, “…the security and splendour of my setting is where my creative impulses find the confidence to step forward…” I have written many pieces at this desk in the last two years— two short stories (both set in Paris); countless articles and essays; edits for my draft novel. And, in a broader sense, even the choice to move to Paris, one premised on a career opportunity, excited me because I have always associated Paris with literary history and inspiration. So, that struggle for physical space is won. But there are many other types of space.

There is also time. I wrote the following words in my published essay in Márọkọ (from my Paris desk): “There is the struggle to make time to write. To wake up early, before I become everything else that the world defines me as, so that I can be this too— a writer. There is the stubborn stance I take, my arms outstretched, to keep the rest of my life away from these precious hours when I get to be part of the wonder of creation…” I am certainly a morning writer. I love the way that the start of a new day feels like a blank canvas, and I find that this is the best environment for my creativity. As Stephen King notes in ‘On writing’, “your schedule… exists in order to habituate yourself, to make yourself ready to dream…” When I am actively working on a writing project, I have to convince myself to get up two hours early to write, regardless of what other pressures or priorities the day ahead offers me, or the previous day left me with. Before my morning routine, before food, before work, I write. Each time, it is a negotiation between sleep and my writing. And most times, I’m happy to say that my writing wins.

There is also the space in my identity — my personal brand. This is the part I struggle with the most, because this is the part that has to do with external validation and acknowledgement of my internal truth. I felt this struggle first in the journey to call myself a writer. In my Márọkọ essay, I explained that “even the declaration, ‘I am a writer’, took many years of grasping at my confidence, of gathering strands of it, for me to assert.” Before this, I would just say that “I write”, diminishing myself in little ways every time I uttered those words. I have successfully built a space where I am a writer — where I share published pieces, lyrical writing, essays, visual stories; and this space exists firmly in the realm of my personal life. At work, on Linkedin, and in some other spaces, this identity does not exist. I suppose it’s also because my career path in finance is so far away from the world of creative writing. In fact, many would believe that “accountant” and “creative” are incongruent terms. But I think it is more than that. I stopped being a closet writer many years ago now, but in a sense, I am still in hiding. It’s so much easier for my professional path to be louder in my mind. I work at it for 9 hours a day, sometimes more; I have an official title and a salary; I am validated and affirmed at my career reviews and every time someone consults me on a finance question; I did professional certifications; there is a defined path. It is easier to proclaim this identity— to shut down imposter syndrome. With writing, more is required in terms of self-esteem and resilience. I have experienced waiting, I have faced rejection, I have questioned whether what I’m saying makes sense or is valuable. I work at writing on my own, and so it is harder to be affirmed, validated, until my words make their way into the world. And I have experienced this too — having pieces published, being read by strangers, having the validation of industry insiders. So why do I still hide? Maybe its fear of failure, or self-protection.

That’s the thing. In some cases, preserving space for my writing may mean speaking about it with friends and family — broaching this as one of the topics for consideration when I report back on how I am doing. But in other cases, preserving space for my writing feels like saying little or nothing about it, for fear that people may not understand or care, for fear that they may say or do something that will taint this part of my life. My writing feels deeply personal, but at the same time, I want to be read widely­— the ultimate irony. So, in some spaces, it feels like I should stay silent till I achieve the ultimate validation — till I get the publishing deal. And then, I will announce myself. But perhaps I am doing myself, and others, a disservice. I am living a neatly separated life, much like the division between my writing table and my worktable— but perhaps these aspects of myself can serve each other.

The struggle for space continues — to carve out physical space, time, words, for my full self. To be everything else I am, but also to be this — a writer.

P.S: I explored a related aspect of sharing my work as a writer in a substack piece linked here.

Prompt:

What part of yourself do you need to give space to? Write about it and share it with me (by sending it on instagram, or replying by email if you’re a subscriber) in the next week, and it will go up on the Instagram page.