WHERE THE SPIRIT MOVES YOU: the best environments for writing creatively

COLETTE preferred to write in bed. Faulkner claimed the back corner-room of his house in Oxford, Mississippi, where he granted himself permission to write plot outlines on the walls. George Bernard Shaw built a shed in his garden that rotated on casters, allowing the square hut to be turned to catch the light. It was furnished with a small table, writing supplies, a cot for naps and an alarm clock set to ring at lunchtime. The author called the shed “London” in order that his staff could respond honestly to people calling at his front door, sending them away with the information that “Mr. Shaw is in London.”

Most of us lack the hubris to justify a custom-built pavilion for our creative endeavors, even less the impunity to scribble on painted walls (which remain as Faulkner adorned them at Rowan Oak). And we may not adore multiple cats lolling on our bodies as we write, as Colette did, although I for one wouldn’t be averse to that. Nevertheless, if we write with any impulse or regularity at all, we crave the right environmental conditions for that activity. In short, a writer needs a writing space that inspires.

For the sake of our discussion here, the distinction should be made between writing locales conducive to everyday practice, and those better reserved for a concentrated output of product, as when a deadline looms or when one is feeling frustrated in one’s creative pursuits by daily obligations to the point of madness. I have needed both kinds of spaces at varying times, and have managed to find workable solutions in each case, while learning what to avoid.

During the years our family lived in Charlotte, North Carolina, we occupied a profoundly ordinary tract house in a development on the northern edge of town. We hadn’t wanted to leave Wake Forest, 150 miles to the east, nor the two-story Colonial we had owned there where azaleas the size of houses bloomed in the front yard every spring and turtles sunbathed in the creek. But corporate upheavals dictate where one lives and how, for those who cast their fates to such unfeeling forces, and a particularly brutal upheaval flung us across the state in 1997 to a ‘transitional’ new-build in Mecklenburg County. There weren’t enough rooms in that house to spare one just for writing, especially not when my mother moved in with us in 2003. However, almost all the floorplans in our development sported a “F.R.O.G.,” or finished-room-over-garage, and here I carved out a very satisfactory writing location under the eaves. The room lacked insulation, so it was extremely hot in the summer and freezing in February, but with a space heater under the desk and a standing fan in the corner, I made do, painting a verse from Tosca on the wall for inspiration: “Vissi d’arte, vissi d’amore.” I cranked out dozens of gardening articles and freelance features for regional magazines in that corner of the FROG, as well as the assignments required for my MFA in writing from Queens U., which I completed in 2007.

The space met my essential criteria for everyday writing needs: it was relatively quiet, and my view of the woods beside our house connected me, and my imagination, to the natural world. There weren’t any azaleas to speak of, and no turtles, but before the neighborhood was built-out we were visited by the occasional whippoorwill, and enjoyed the presence of barred and horned owls drawn to the narrow lake near our house. Staying up late to write, I sometimes heard them in the swamp oak, calling to their own kind. Like many other writers I know, nature’s presence is a singular comfort to me and a prime requirement in a work space.

I might have found Shaw’s rotating hut a bit claustrophobic, but I could easily settle down to business in Faulkner’s ground-floor study at Rowan Oak, whose windows overlook the barn, a pasture, and the woods beyond. The room features a fireplace and is furnished like a hunting cabin, with a narrow spool bed, Adirondack chair and bookshelves. The author’s typewriter rests on a simple wooden table which is said to be a gift from his mother. Faulkner despised modern air conditioning, but a vintage electric fan remains in place from sultry summer days when it was essential. As the story goes, two days after W. F. passed away, his widow ordered AC to be installed throughout the house. I confess, I’m with Estelle: I would not have had the stamina to endure August in Mississippi with only a rotary fan. (Speaking of which, that’s my favorite Faulkner novel…)

The writer and poet Susan Tekulve, a member of the faculty at Converse College in Spartanburg, South Carolina, sides with the great novelist on this issue of air conditioning. She says that when she writes “I need to sit outside in fresh air, preferably on my deck…Good interruptions (are) the occasional hummingbird or fat bee rolling in the begonias, my cat, wind chimes, coffee breaks. Bad interruptions (are) the internet, the t.v., the news, air conditioning. I honestly must be in touch with real air rather than recycled, frigid A.C. air, even if it’s hot and sweaty outside.” The key advantage of Faulkner’s writing room, at least on the day I visited, was the quiet it enjoyed. Rowan Oak is located at no great distance from the center of Oxford, the county seat, and is so close to the campus of Ole Miss that a pathway leads from the pasture through the woods to the university. And yet standing in the allee of Eastern red cedar trees that leads to the front door of the column-fronted house, my husband and I could hear nothing but the buzz of cicadas.

In the years Faulkner and his wife and daughter lived at Rowan Oak, Oxford was a much sleepier town that it is now: the advent of literary tourism and the growth of the community’s reputation as a haven for ‘foodies’ was far in the distance. I can only imagine how remote it must have seemed back then from the hustle and bustle and grinding roar of the world-at-large. In talking to other writers about their writing spaces, this craving for silence and solitude ranks high in their criteria. Deirdre Parker Smith, who has enjoyed a long career in print journalism, says “I was so used to writing in the newsroom with a group of other people talking, the scanner – which was always behind or next to my cubicle – phones ringing, unpredictable interruptions. But now, I want quiet.” Author Meg Lelvis agrees. She lives in Orlando and sometimes borrows her daughter’s condominium in Cocoa Beach for a night or two when she needs a writing retreat. “I need absolute silence to concentrate,” says Lelvis, “and when I’m there, nothing distracts me.” After silence and solitude are achieved, the priority for most writers is carving out uninterrupted blocks of time in which to work. This is especially true for those of us who face deadlines on particular projects, and feel we cannot reasonably meet the target dates without exiling ourselves from the everyday world. In that case the options for such productive exile are limited mainly by cost and distance, but also by the nature of the retreat offered. I know from the many conferences, festivals and writers’ symposiums I have attended that most of them involve a considerable social component. This is not to say that one must be interacting with people throughout the event, but in most cases, participating writers are expected to be available for group discussions, readings and communal meals. This can be a wonderful resource for building community, but is not always conducive to a high word-count.

For purposes of the latter, I know writers who rent cabins or cottages on the open market, but in my case, this has not often been optimal. VRBOs (vacation rental by owner) and AirB&Bs may seem economical when shopping online, but extra fees added by the agencies are not always revealed until after the accommodations are booked, and they can add up until the booking becomes almost as costly as a first-class hotel room. Reputable hotels have to be responsive when there’s a problem with a room, but when dealing directly with property owners, it has been my experience that they are not always motivated to address deficiencies in their rentals. A few years ago, I booked a cabin in the mountains of western North Carolina for four nights, intending to complete revisions on a novel draft. The listing promised ‘excellent Wi-Fi,’ and I confirmed this with the owner before making the long drive to the site, as I knew I would be going online frequently to do research and check facts. Once there, however, the plumbing proved balky and my internet connection failed repeatedly; only when I had a conversation with a cousin of the owner who was house-sitting at the main house, several hundred yards distant, did I learn that the modem was set up in the owner’s dining room. In other words, without a dedicated modem for the cabin, connection to the internet was bound to be hit-or-miss, at best, and yet I was paying as much as I would have done for a mountain-view room at the Grove Park Inn, Wi-Fi guaranteed, along with a full bar and room service!

I found a much better solution for a writing getaway when I discovered The Porches in Nelson County, Virginia. Trudy Hale, herself a writer and a California transplant, bought the double-porched farmhouse with her husband decades ago. When renovations on the dilapidated property, circa 1854, proved too much for her husband Billy to deal with, he returned to Hollywood and Trudy assumed the task of making it a home for her and their children. Eventually, she got the idea to transform the house and grounds into a haven for other writers, and so it has proven to be.

Writers apply directly to Hale to stay in one of four rooms in the main house, or in a self-contained cottage she undertook to build during the pandemic. The rates are affordable and the rules clear: everyone is responsible for their own cooking and cleaning-up in the spacious kitchen, and while socializing with other writers is encouraged, talking loudly on one’s cellphone on the porches or in the house is not. People are there to think and to work, and on my recent stay in May I was getting more writing done than I’d been capable of for weeks at home, where distractions are plentiful.

The Porches is isolated in its rustic canyon beside the Tye River, so it’s beautifully quiet there except for the CSX trains barreling through the valley by night, and there are plenty of places to walk and hike if one feels inspired to do so. In my attic room on the third floor, I worked with the windows open to breezes and birdsong during the day. At dusk, fireflies floated skyward past my desk like blinking champagne bubbles. It was magical.

If I were ever in a position to own a second home, a getaway that could serve as a writing retreat, I already know what my ideal structure would look like. My husband and I stumbled upon the Coffee Pot house while driving near Lexington, Virginia. We had to park, get out, and take photos of the untenanted building because I was totally smitten. The only problem I could see, from the standpoint of occupying it in ‘uninterrupted’ peace, is that drivers would be forever knocking on my door, wanting to know if they could get a double espresso to go.

##### Many thanks to Susan Tekulve, Julia Franks, Debbie Moore Clark, Meg Lelvis, Deirde Parker Smith, Penny Watson and Kim Johnson Griffin for their contributions to this post. The Porches 56 Pine Hill Lane Norwood VA 24581 (434) 263-4135 https://www.porcheswritingretreat.com