A visit to Katherine Lawrence's studio. Katherine is the author of Black Umbrella and Never Mind.
After forty years of working outside the house, raising a family, writing poetry at the kitchen table, or in the makeshift office of a spare bedroom, I finally, finally, have a room of my own.
A small, quiet studio tucked inside a brick heritage building in downtown Saskatoon.
The space feels like a secret as I climb the twenty-five narrow steps to a shared door on the third floor, enter the four-digit passcode, shut the door behind me, disarm the security system, turn, reach for the chrome key in my pocket, and unlock the door to my studio.
*
It was Virginia Woolf who famously said in 1928, “A woman must have money and a room of her own if she is to write fiction.” Why did it take me four decades to heed her advice? Because I’d always found a place to write in the homes I’ve shared with my family. After both of our daughters moved away, I believed that one of the extra bedrooms would make an ideal office. And it did. Until my husband retired and set up an office next to mine. Lovely as it was to hear him knock on my door and enter with a cup of hot tea, it was also distracting to hear him knock on my door and enter with a cup of hot tea.
Virginia’s counsel grew louder but I ignored her. My home office was cheap and efficient. I could toss in a load of laundry when I needed to stretch my legs. Or chop carrots and onions for soup, sweep the floor, dust, drive to the grocery store. My home office supported the smooth management of our household, but the ready interruptions ran counter to the job of writing. There were days, too many days, when I let the insistence of chores prevent me from returning to whatever snag I’d hit while writing and editing.
“…a room of her own….”
*
One day, in a fit of frustration with myself, I sent out a flurry of queries to friends and colleagues. It was time for my own studio, a quiet space in walking distance of my house, something within budget, anything far away from washer, dryer, stove, fridge, and the sound of a man typing, talking on his phone, or running the vacuum downstairs.
I soon signed a sub-lease agreement that ticked all the boxes. My furnished studio is one I share with a social worker who rents the space part-time. The building manager keeps a studio on site. The other renters quietly come and go—the software developer whose co-worker is a gentle German Shepherd named Sheba, the tattoo artist with a tangled grey beard, another counsellor who works evenings only.
The arrangement suits me as I now use my non-studio days to work at home on the administrative tasks that attend every writer—website management, answering email, responding to queries. Tasks that can cope with the sound of someone in the house who listens to the blues while he works. Curiously, I no longer resent my share of the domestic load because time feels better organized.
The studio gives me everything Virginia knew first-hand: no one knocks on my door, chores can’t find me. And when I feel the need to stand and stretch, I wander down a narrow hall past the bathroom and the other studio doors to a communal kitchen, fill the kettle, brew a cup of lavender Earl Grey tea, and return—I go back—to write the next line.
Books by Katherine Lawrence:
Turnstone Press Ltd.
