It's official: I now work in a pole dancing studio.
I don’t want you to get the wrong idea: the pole dancing is strictly for fitness; women only. And also, when I say I work there, I mean I rent their extra room.
I've been looking for a writing office for a while now, and feeling as I did it like a terrible writer. I know lots of writers with neither space nor time. None of the amazing writers in my beloved writers' group has an office. I know Sarah Prineas writes at her kitchen table. I know R.J. Anderson writes (heaven knows how) during nap times for three small boys.
And I know I have so much already. I was able, through the grace of God and the money of Harry Potter, to quit my day job and write full time. Not only that, but I have a supportive and wonderful stay-at-home hubby, also a writer, who can look after the kids. I ask myself: how much more perfect do I really need things to be? Is my frustration about writing at home just an excuse? What if I get this one more perfect thing and the frustration doesn't lift?
But I remind myself that the frustration has a real source: kids. They are four (and a half; she would want me to tell you) and two. They believe that Mommy's time is their time. No amount of request, signage, or threat has yet gotten them to leave me be for more than a half hour at a time. Often enough, they are found climbing into my lap as I try to work. It's frustrating for them; it's infuriating for me; there's yelling.
I remind myself, too, of my fierce and formidable Dutch grandmother. She had to give up driving at the age of 94 - a pity because she still had six years left on the warrantee of the tires we got her for her 90th. She lived in a small town, where three of her daughters also lived. When she needed to go somewhere she would walk two houses to the busiest corner in town and stand there until someone came to get her. The sheer radiating force of her would quickly bring someone around. "But Mother, why don't you just call?" the conversation (repeatedly) went. "I wouldn't want to ask."
Lesson for self: when you need something, ask. Or go and get it.
So I did.
I put out feelers and searched want ads for some time. Office spaces would pop up, but the price was too high. Or the price was right, but the space was out on the edge of town in a warehouse. I guess I had a pretty specific wishlist: a window. Quiet. Privacy: if I wanted to share a space, I could stick it out at the library. It had to be handy to my bus-and-bike lifestyle. Available during the school day, since I want to work 9-3.
Finally an add popped up: a dance studio that gives classes in the evenings, with an extra room to rent. Wants tenants during the day. Right downtown. A nice high-ceilinged room with big window looking out over main street. Cheap, or at least reasonable. Perfect.
Perfect? Poles. The dance studio is in fact a pole dancing studio. The main space has a half-dozen brass poles mounted to the floor and ceiling. When I went to see it I confess I was, um, surprised.
Plus the beautiful room - high ceilings, great window - is painted bordello red. With black trim.
But I sorta loved it anyway. The dance studio is in the fitness business, with weekend bachelorette parties, which sounds like a hoot, albeit a saucy one. The instructor I met - in a tee and shorts, barefoot, braids, no make up - looked as if she taught yoga and maybe delivered babies on the side. An earth-mother type. Who, yep, can flip upside-down and spin on a brass pole.
The studio owner and I have agreed to try each other out for a month. So we'll see if this works. I am excited; I am hopeful. And I am amused.
I've been looking for a writing office for a while now, and feeling as I did it like a terrible writer. I know lots of writers with neither space nor time. None of the amazing writers in my beloved writers' group has an office. I know Sarah Prineas writes at her kitchen table. I know R.J. Anderson writes (heaven knows how) during nap times for three small boys.
And I know I have so much already. I was able, through the grace of God and the money of Harry Potter, to quit my day job and write full time. Not only that, but I have a supportive and wonderful stay-at-home hubby, also a writer, who can look after the kids. I ask myself: how much more perfect do I really need things to be? Is my frustration about writing at home just an excuse? What if I get this one more perfect thing and the frustration doesn't lift?
But I remind myself that the frustration has a real source: kids. They are four (and a half; she would want me to tell you) and two. They believe that Mommy's time is their time. No amount of request, signage, or threat has yet gotten them to leave me be for more than a half hour at a time. Often enough, they are found climbing into my lap as I try to work. It's frustrating for them; it's infuriating for me; there's yelling.
I remind myself, too, of my fierce and formidable Dutch grandmother. She had to give up driving at the age of 94 - a pity because she still had six years left on the warrantee of the tires we got her for her 90th. She lived in a small town, where three of her daughters also lived. When she needed to go somewhere she would walk two houses to the busiest corner in town and stand there until someone came to get her. The sheer radiating force of her would quickly bring someone around. "But Mother, why don't you just call?" the conversation (repeatedly) went. "I wouldn't want to ask."
Lesson for self: when you need something, ask. Or go and get it.
So I did.
I put out feelers and searched want ads for some time. Office spaces would pop up, but the price was too high. Or the price was right, but the space was out on the edge of town in a warehouse. I guess I had a pretty specific wishlist: a window. Quiet. Privacy: if I wanted to share a space, I could stick it out at the library. It had to be handy to my bus-and-bike lifestyle. Available during the school day, since I want to work 9-3.
Finally an add popped up: a dance studio that gives classes in the evenings, with an extra room to rent. Wants tenants during the day. Right downtown. A nice high-ceilinged room with big window looking out over main street. Cheap, or at least reasonable. Perfect.
Perfect? Poles. The dance studio is in fact a pole dancing studio. The main space has a half-dozen brass poles mounted to the floor and ceiling. When I went to see it I confess I was, um, surprised.
Plus the beautiful room - high ceilings, great window - is painted bordello red. With black trim.
But I sorta loved it anyway. The dance studio is in the fitness business, with weekend bachelorette parties, which sounds like a hoot, albeit a saucy one. The instructor I met - in a tee and shorts, barefoot, braids, no make up - looked as if she taught yoga and maybe delivered babies on the side. An earth-mother type. Who, yep, can flip upside-down and spin on a brass pole.
The studio owner and I have agreed to try each other out for a month. So we'll see if this works. I am excited; I am hopeful. And I am amused.