Monday, 8 February 2010

A Room-Desk of One's Own

Given the name my parents chose for me, perhaps I should have started reading Virginia Woolf's way earlier than I actually did. But the more people pointed to the fact we bore the same name, the more I steered clear from her books. Until about 12 years ago, when we met and fast became best friend thanks to a mutual friend, Mrs. Dalloway.
Down with chickenpox, in the last few days I couldn't bring myself to read more than ten pages of anything before migraine kicked in, so I just glanced at some pages here and there: from the forever-on-my-shelves-and-always-in-my-heart Calvino to Isabel Allende via Pennac, I stopped by Mrs. Woolf as well, ça va sans dire. 
In one of the first pages"A Room of One's Own" Virginia Woolf writes that "a woman must have money and a room of her own if she is to write fiction".
Not only fiction, my dear Virginia: you will need (money and) a room of your own if you want to write a shopping list, a mail, a paper letter or post for your blog.
I love writing, creating with words, no matter how good or bad I can be at it. It's a stress relief, a joy, a mean to express myself in ways I have not when I speak. Most of the time I don't realize how important to me is writing (just like taking pictures, reading and some other so-called hobbies) until I find myself in the condition of not being able to spend some time doing it. 
It's only when I start suffocating that I realize the oxygen is missing.
It made me think of my current situation: I own a flat, that I rented out when I moved out of the country and for 2 years I won't be able to use it again because of the the contract. Not that I complain about it.
The rent pays the mortgage on the flat, allowing me to not worry too much about the money.
At the moment I'm back at living with my parents (a "bambocciona", as one of the 7 dwarves, no, pardon, he's an Italian Minister keeps describing 30 years-old people still living at home with their parents) and the room of my own is my teenagehood bedroom. Not entirely what Virginia Woolf would have in mind if she were to write her essay today.
Fact is that I had a plan. Yeah, I know, the gods are laughing, ROFL if they're into the Web2.0; but anyway, I had a plan and the plan had me following a course and then moving out again: out of my parents' home and out of Italy.
The course is no way near the beginning and the dream of moving to Spain came out to be just that. 
So here I am, no course but a job, no boyfriend but chickenpox. A fair exchange, what do you think?
I tidied up the desk today, threw away some stuff, put some order and decided that, until I don't sort out the next move and what to do in the next months, well, a room desk of my own will do.

a room-desk of one's own

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