At my best, I write everywhere. I write waiting for the train or for a friend who’s running late. I really write best when I’m supposed to be doing something else. Watching a movie? Too bad. My protagonist whispered something delightful into my ear and I must quickly document what she’s said.
But other times, she can wait until I’m back in my apartment. Then I open my laptop and play hot potato around my room. First, I lie on my stomach with my arms overhead until my lower back hurts. Then I sit upright at my desk with my left knee bent onto the cushion and my right leg anchored to the floor, my back curved like a banana toward the screen. Or I sit in a pretzel on the couch by the window full of light and heat and sound from the street, my laptop in my lap, the corners of the machine leaving indents in my thighs as ephemeral as vacant parking spots.
I’ve tried writing in coffee shops and libraries, but none of them measure up to my bedroom. Here, I have my own stacks of books as references. Here, I can use the bathroom without asking a stranger to look after my stuff.
Gloria Anzaldúa asked “Who gave us permission to perform the act of writing?” When I think about that question in the context of my own life I realize writing has always been a form of rebellion. Nobody gave me permission to write—no, they were constantly calling me down for dinner. As a teenager, I locked the door of my bedroom to write poems. Even now, as two people in my apartment still sleep, I write hastily from the kitchen, simmering in July heat, with a mild sense of panic. The sun is high in the sky and they’ll be awake soon.
Virginia Wolff wrote that a woman needs her own room to write. In my case, it has certainly helped. But for many, having a dedicated space is the goal—not the given. For many, first you must give yourself permission. That takes guts. Anzaldúa said it loud and clear—we must remember that we don’t need degrees and credentials to write.
In an old journal years before I had sold my novel, I once scribbled, “Why must I be a writer to write?” How sad, how silly I’d been, waiting around for someone to tell me something I already know!
Look, I don’t care from what room or train car you do it, if you have an unpublished manuscript or you’re on your sixth book. For all the insurmountable things you’ve accomplished in your life, when have you ever needed permission? The morning evaporates, the apartment wakes up, and I’m called upon now. You don’t need me to tell you what to do. You don’t need me, here as I am—making breakfast, small talk, making do—and even now still thinking of you. Now, I’m cheering for you.
Stephanie’s debut novel is part of Amazon’s First Reads program, which means Prime members can receive early access before the book officially releases on August 1, 2019! Check it out here!
Stephanie Jimenez is the author of They Could Have Named Her Anything. Her fiction and nonfiction have appeared in The Guardian; O, The Oprah Magazine; The New York Times; Joyland Magazine; and more. She is a former Fulbright recipient. She is based in Queens, New York. Follow her on Twitter at @estefsays.
