The Conditions for Creation: How to Write Without Space
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A little more than two years ago, my partner and I moved into our first apartment together — a building out of place in time. All along the walls of the lobby, old tattered and tearing tapestries hung. The carpet, a dull-yet-still-bright red carpet with intricate patterns woven into it covered the floors; elevators gilded in scuffed up gold with wooden walls, shuttered as they scaled the building. All of this was consequential though, a mere perk to the apartment itself. The bright, high-noon sun of late summer beamed off the tall white walls, revealing small particles of dust. And for the low price — soon-to-be-construction dropped the cost from “way too much” to “we can swing it” — we knew we couldn’t pass it up.
After we moved our collage of belongings inherited from family, we sat on the broken couch my partner was given and took a moment to reflect on this new space we could call ours: our one bed, one bathroom apartment, our small, outdated kitchen, our dining and living room, our solarium. With so much air and light and space, we assured each other that we’d make time for our personal projects. Time for her art and design; time for my writing and for promoting my latest book, Delirium.
We had air and light and time and space. But we did nothing with it.
The Artist Makes the Space
There is a meticulous care that we put into creating a space that is right for us — and for good reason. Being comfortable where, arguably, most of the waking days and sleepless nights will be spent is important. It can make all the difference between being able to focus or not. It feels good knowing there is a place we can retreat to, where we can shut out the world. It is a room — or desk — of our own, and another way for us to creatively express ourselves.
My partner and I turned our first apartment into a wonderful home and a beautiful creative space. But our Achilles’ heel was that it allowed for us to find another way to procrastinate.
Now, we have a different vision for our new home. And as I’ve been getting my office setup, I’ve to fight against the former excuses I once stood by that allowed me a pass from writing for that particular day.
There’s a poem by Charles Bukowski that’s been fluttering around in my head: “air and light and time and space.”
“– you know, I’ve either had a family, a job,
something has always been in the
way
but now
I’ve sold my house, I’ve found this
place, a large studio, you should see the space and
the light.
for the first time in my life I’m going to have
a place and the time to
create.”
no baby, if you’re going to create
you’re going to create whether you work
16 hours a day in a coal mine
or
you’re going to create in a small room with 3 children
while you’re on
welfare,
you’re going to create with part of your mind and your body blown
away,
you’re going to create blind
crippled
demented,
you’re going to create with a cat crawling up your
back while
the whole city trembles in earthquake, bombardment,
flood and fire.
baby, air and light and time and space
have nothing to do with it
and don’t create anything
except maybe a longer life to find
new excuses
for.
It’s a poem from his magnificent collection The Last Night of the Earth Poems. One that resonates deeply with the tendency I’ve allowed myself to get caught up in, especially since the rise of COVID-19 in the U.S.
The Space Does Not Make Art
I think of J.D. Salinger, who carried with him six chapters of The Catcher and the Rye when he landed on the beaches of Normandy, France on D-Day. Throughout the war, he continually worked on the book.
I think of Ocean Vuong, who, during an interview with Seth Meyers, shared how he wrote his debut novel in a closet.
I think of Charles Bukowski, once again, who was known for being a vagrant for most of his writing life.
And I think of Chuck Close, who said: “Inspiration is for amateurs — the rest of us just show up and get to work. And the belief that things will grow out of the activity itself and that you will — through work — bump into other possibilities and kick open other doors that you would never have dreamt of if you were just sitting around looking for a great ‘art idea.”
While making a space of our own provides comfort, it doesn’t necessarily provide the means for creativity. The act of writing — creation of any art — requires pursuit, no matter the conditions.
“Baby, air and light and time and space,” as Bukowski says, “have nothing to do with it / and don’t create anything / except maybe a longer life to find / new excuses / for.”
About Coty Poynter
Coty Poynter is the author of two poetry books. His most recent, Delirium: Collected Poems, was published by Bowen Press. His work has appeared in Black Fox Literary Magazine, Equinox, Grub Street, and Underwood Press. He lives in Baltimore with his partner, their cat Pudge, and a hodgepodge of plants.
