To Break a Block, Fake a Writing Shed

What if all you need is a change of scenery?

Rachel Whiteread, House, 1993, concrete, wood and steel

Where do you write? Where do you want to write?

Of all the things I can get whipped into a pointless froth of envy about — exotic travels, flashy book deal announcements, floral wallpaper— nothing needles me more than writing sheds. 

Yes, writing sheds. The ultimate Room of One’s Own.  Do you know anyone who has a writing shed? Do you have a writing shed? Can I borrow it?

I think what gets me so horny for writing sheds is twofold:

1. A writing shed seems like something a Real Writer would have. Like, yes I’ve published books but they’ve been mostly written in the nooks and crannies of life, in sometimes ridiculous locations. I’ve often repeated the story of how I edited some of my second novel while waiting in line to register my daughter for toddler ballet — it’s just so absurd. I fantasize about a life centered around my writing rather than vice versa, the old someone-to-lick-your-stamps Art Monster reverie, even though I know that’s problematic.

2. Part of me secretly believes that one could never get distracted or blocked or stuck while writing in a writing shed.

Novelist and playwright Deborah Levy writes about her writing shed in her memoirs The Cost of Living and Real Estate. It’s a small structure under an apple tree in a London garden; she describes it as dark, dusty, and “freezing in winter and sweltering in summer.” I hate mice with the fire of a thousand suns, but when Levy notes that mice and squirrels scurry about her feral writing space, it sounds positively Cinderella-esque. Levy’s shed isn’t entirely her own — she has to bicycle some distance to get there, adding what UX designers call “friction.” Sheds are by nature low on amenities. All in all, it sounds pretty annoying. 

And YET.

If I were creatively blocked in a shed I had to travel to, I imagine I would have no choice but to fling myself upon whatever artistically destroyed couch lived in there, or walk about the garden in a preoccupied circle until the words flowed again. (I’m reminded of the great scene in Jane Campion’s film about John Keats, Bright Star, in which Keats and his writer friend Charles Armitage Brown sternly warn their neighbors never to interrupt them when it looks like they are lying around doing nothing, because that is an important part of their Work.)

I would, I fantasize, allow myself the thinky in-between time I know we all need but rarely allow myself because it just feels so inefficient. I would have to. That’s writing shed life, baby.

Last winter I rented my own writing shed (pictured above). Well, it was more of a writing cabin (still pictured above). Cute right? I’d found myself with some time off and no parenting responsibilities for a week, and on a whim I booked an Airbnb in the Catskills. I made my own writing retreat there, bringing my manuscript in progress, which I’d been pretty stuck on, and a week’s worth of pre-made meals and snacks from Trader Joe’s, so that I didn’t have to waste brain power thinking about keeping my stupid annoying human body alive.

I proceeded to finish my novel draft, and I know my book is so much better for it. I could concentrate so deeply and completely, alone in the cabin in the woods, hold the whole thing in my head, and not think about anything else, except occasionally, fleetingly, whether black bears were attracted to Trader Joe’s enchiladas.

What do you think of my novel? ^^ Good right?

Obviously, you don’t really need to own a writing shed in order to cosplay writing shed. And maybe your kink isn’t even writing shed — too cottage-core? — but some other kind of space. The point is, it really does help to change your location. It really does create a little oasis in your brain where you can remove yourself from the distractions of your everyday world.

The object is inefficiency. When you’re at home and you get stuck on a piece of writing, you can switch gears to some other task that needs to be completed, like a good little worker-bee. When you’ve marooned yourself in your friend’s apartment or a hotel room or the really quiet carrel at the library, you are giving yourself permission to write, even if part of the process is staring off into space in a deeply inefficient way.

Wait, not the library carrel. Sorry, I want that to be true, because it’s convenient. But it’s not true. That’s not what I mean. I mean, sometimes you need to claim some space for yourself in a way that’s actually really inconvenient. Take a weekend. Leave where you live. It will cost you something — money, time, energy — but that’s writing shed life, baby.

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Exercise: When and where have you done your best creative work? Write down everything you can recall about what made that place so conducive to creativity. How could you get back there, or some place like it? If not physically, then mentally?

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If you have a particular project you want support on, or a manuscript that needs an edit, or if you’re looking for a regular writing coach or accountability partner, head to my website and book some time to chat. 

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PS: Hey New York City, I’ll be teaching a generative writing class in person (!) starting next week, for Sackett Street Writers Workshops. Writing Sprints is an exercise-intensive course designed to “unstick” writers struggling to start or continue new projects, boosting writing productivity. It’ll be on Wednesday nights in Park Slope, Brooklyn. More information is here. I think there’s still room available, so if you’re interested, apply today.