What a Woman (Writer or Artist) Wants

... And needs in order to live a creative life

Hello! So much has happened in my life in recent weeks. The ups and downs have been tremendous—as they have been for the past two years since I quit my life and left for Europe. I can’t wait to share with you how my new life is (finally) taking shape. But before I do that, I thought it would be interesting to go back in time and revisit a post I wrote in March 2023, nearly a year and a half ago. By then, six months since I had left home, I had decided that yes, I did want to be a writer. But what kind of life did I need to build around that? Here are my thoughts from back then . . .

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From March 2023 . . .

What does it take for a woman to become a writer or an artist? To devote herself to her craft? To turn away from family and friends and turn inward to discover her own depths? And to make the art that only she can make?

These questions have haunted me all of my adult life. It’s the question that sent me to graduate school, where I was determined to discover exactly when and how American women writers had found the space and courage to become that most selfish—and thus most unladylike—of things, an artist.

And even though I’ve written a book about the post-Civil-War generation of women writers who had done exactly that, as well as a biography of the most committed and accomplished of those women (Constance Fenimore Woolson), in addition to a book and many articles about Little Women and the ambitions of Jo March, I am still searching for answers.

The only difference now is that I want to answer that question for myself—finally. I’ve put it off long enough.

As I wander around Europe in search of experiences and opportunities to grow, I struggle to write or even to think of myself as a “writer.” I also struggle to imagine what my future could look like. I’ve had some vague dreams of myself in a cottage, drinking tea and writing all morning, then going for long country walks in the afternoon. A peaceful, centered life, like the one Constance Fenimore Woolson had for the years she lived on the hill of Bellosguardo looking out over the valley and the rooftops of Florence. She loved being above the fray and the social whirl of the town. She loved her hours-long walks and her solitude. But I also know that she struggled at times with her solitary life.

The view Woolson had of Florence. I took this photo last May during my month in Italy.

In 1884, after reading George Eliot’s Life as Related in Her Letters and Journals, Woolson made a sobering observation about the advantages Eliot had enjoyed:

“She had one of the easiest, most indulged and ‘petted’ lives that I have ever known or heard of. . . . True, she earned the money for two, and she worked very hard. But how many, many women would be glad to do the same through all of their lives if their reward was such a devoted love as that!” (CFW to Emily Vernon Clark, n.d., in The Complete Letters of Constance Fenimore Woolson, edited by Sharon Dean, 550–51.)

This line has stuck with me for many years. Like Woolson, I am now alone and wondering how to make a living and to write what matters to me. I’ve been thinking of Woolson a fair bit lately. I can see now that I was so drawn to her story because she did exactly what I secretly wanted to do—leave the U.S. and make her life in Europe. It was easier to live an unconventional life as a woman in Europe than at “home.” To be honest, though, Woolson no longer felt as if she had a home. She came to Europe after her mother died, her last responsibility. And I suppose I did something similar, leaving after my daughter went off to college.

Stability and Balance

As I was writing Woolson’s biography, my life was quite different than it is now. Although I wouldn’t say I’ve ever experienced the loving devotion George Eliot did from George Lewes, I did have the stability and grounding of a family and a stable home. I didn’t have to worry about paying the rent or the grocery bill. I had a room all to myself in which to write, and quiet in the house during the day.

And most importantly, I think, I had to stop writing everyday at 3:00 so I could pick up my daughter from school. She enriched my life in ways that are even more apparent to me now that I don’t see her every day. She gave my life ballast and balance, and I feel awfully off-kilter now without her.

As much as women struggle to maintain their own creative projects and energies in the face of motherhood, which I did as well when she was young, I also found that her presence in my life made it fuller and more fulfilling in a way that writing never could. The two satisfied different but perhaps complementary needs—the need for mental stimulation and self-expression on the one hand, and the need for human bonding and attachment on the other.

Louisa May Alcott never married or had children, so she could only speculate that a husband and a bunch of rambunctious boys could make Jo March a better writer someday. Jo says in Little Women’s final pages,

I haven’t given up the hope that I may write a good book yet, but I can wait, and I’m sure it will be all the better for such experiences and illustrations as these [referring to her family and the school she and Professor Bhaer run].

The first time I read Jo’s words, when I was in graduate school, I hoped they could be true, because I desperately wanted a career and a family.

I got what I wished for, and for years I felt that I could never give 100% to either, but it was actually the balancing act between the two that sustained and nourished me. Now I often feel like my life is out of whack, and I find myself craving loving companionship and the groundedness of a home. I wonder, if I had that, could I then find the mental capacity to dive back into the novel I was writing during the pandemic?

I had an interesting talk the other day with the writer and writing coach Cynthia Morris, and she told me that although travel is a major inspiration for her, she is never able to write while she is on the road. There is too much to see and do, too much going on to write much more than one’s fleeting impressions in a journal.

I think of Wordsworth’s words about poetry being the “overflow of powerful feelings . . . recollected in tranquility.” What does a writer need to feel that tranquility? A home and a wife, you might say, someone to take care of life’s daily tasks, as so many men like Wordsworth have had. But I think what I need is more than just someone to feed me and keep the house clean (although that would be nice). I also crave community and companionship.

So many women writers have found in solitude an antidote to the self-sacrifice to which women are so often conditioned. And that is what I needed when I left home. I needed some time apart from responsibility to family to begin to see myself again. I had become so lost inside of the matrix of other people’s needs and emotions. But having spent a fair bit of time alone now, I feel myself tipping too far in the other direction at times.

Community and Companionship

Of course, Virginia Woolf has the most famous answer to the question of what a woman needs to be a writer—a room of her own and an independent income. She doesn’t mention a home (which must contain the room) or a companion to provide ballast and support, which she most certainly had with her husband, Leonard. I feel much like Woolson did, though—wary of giving up my independence in exchange for security and grounding.

I’ve had many rooms of my own during my travels. This was my favorite, at Cummari in Sicily.

Another possibility has also been floating around in my head—a community of women, which is, interestingly, what Alcott proposed at the end of her adult novel Work. I first started having thoughts about welcoming other women writers into whatever home I might create back in 2019. I can’t remember the name of the memoir I read then, but it was the memoir of a woman (a writer) who had had her life upended by an unexpected divorce and bankruptcy. Once she was on her feet again and had bought a new home, she invited her writer friends to come and stay, to have a writing retreat in her basement guestroom. As a result, she often had a guest staying with her, and they would each spend their days on their respective work and then come together and make dinner and have enriching conversations in the evening. Doesn’t that sound lovely?

Of course, after staying in the women’s coliving-coworking house called Cummari in Sicily last year, I’ve thought about it even more. But such a dream requires property, and I’m still not sure where I want to live and put down roots—or whether I can get a visa to stay there.

As I write this on the train to Inverness through the Highlands opening out in front of me, I continue to contemplate what kind of life I want to build for myself. My dream is for a life that will support my writing and provide the human companionship I crave as much as the time and space to put my thoughts down on the page.

A view from the train on the way to Inverness

I’d love to hear your thoughts. Do you find that you need more solitude or more companionship in your life? What do you think a writer or artist needs in order to fulfill her creative potential?

Until next time,

Anne

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