I am currently seated on the bed within the bedroom that will soon no longer be mine, situated in the townhouse that I will relinquish in exchange for a swift custody agreement, providing me with the opportunity to move forward. It is not “my week,” so I am endeavoring to remain inconspicuous while downstairs, my nearly former husband is preparing breakfast for our children.
Meanwhile, in Bangladesh, my parents, disheartened by my choice, have chosen silence as their response. I sense a disconnection from everyone, including myself. The weight of my sorrow is keenly felt, a chilling core of pulsating fear. Yet, intertwined with this emotion is a sense of excitement as I approach the boundaries of the expected course of action. Downstairs, the sounds of clattering, the cheerful voices of the children, and their father’s measured replies fill the space.
Upstairs, my fingers move swiftly to craft an essay that flows effortlessly, requiring minimal editing. This type of writing is rare, characterized by its ease and immediacy. It ignites a thirst for more, a stroke of luck that fosters the belief that being an artist is indeed gratifying.
Upon relocating to my own abode—a two-bedroom condominium just fifteen minutes away from the aforementioned townhouse—I encountered myself for the first time in over a decade. Balancing a full-time job teaching art and writing at military hospitals, I carted art supplies through wards, distributing poems for discussion among patients grappling with PTSD and moral injury.
Navigating a recent divorce, full-time studies, and the sudden loss of my father, I dedicated the early morning hours to reading, edited during soccer games, and wrote during bus commutes to and from work, as well as on weekends without my children. It was during this period of singlehood that I embraced writing, finding solace in solitude. I wrote to survive, on the fringes of life’s demands, culminating in the creation of my first book—a lifeline that was not entirely sufficient. I yearned for uninterrupted moments with my thoughts, aspiring to be a writer who places writing at the core of her existence.
However, with two school-aged children and limited time off, the standard two-week minimum stay at most artist residencies remained unattainable. Amidst perusing various opportunities for future application, I stumbled upon a summer program at the Fine Arts Work Center in Provincetown—a six-day commitment offering guidance from accomplished writers in a remote setting far removed from familiar surroundings.
In a modest, unairconditioned apartment with sluggish internet near Cape Cod Bay, my days commenced before sunrise with coffee and reading, followed by tranquil walks along the bay. Subsequently, I would return to my laptop at a wooden table, reviewing the morning’s work before attending class at 9 am on Pearl Street.
During the three-hour sessions in a whitewashed room, our instructor challenged a diverse group of writers at different stages of their journeys to delve into new and challenging topics. While my peers lingered post-class, organizing lunch outings and swims, I would retreat to my apartment, reflecting on the day’s creations—poems that would eventually form the basis of my second book.
At times, I would recline in bed, the fan whirring against the afternoon heat, drifting into a nap. Occasionally, I drove to the beach, observing seals bobbing in the water, torn between concern for their safety and a morbid curiosity for potential shark encounters. As dusk settled, I sought a simple dinner, strolling through the cemetery, half-hoping to be mistaken for a ghost by passing vehicles. Upon returning home, I rinsed away the sand, cooling myself before bedtime.
Throughout my week in Provincetown, my focus was solely on personal needs—the boardwalk strolls, immersive reading sessions, rejuvenating showers, and reflective cemetery visits. I found amusement in my own jests and allowed myself moments of vulnerability.
In Provincetown, writing was not a means of processing life’s demands but rather an act of curiosity and self-expression. It marked a departure from the necessity of writing to a realm where writing was a joyous exploration. It hinted at a different approach.
Upon returning home, I penned a reminder on a post-it note affixed to my bathroom mirror: “Your writing is not meant to be useful to anyone.”
Fast forward to two years ago, the first time in a decade post-divorce, I cohabited with my partner, Amanda. Our home, where we both work remotely—following the conclusion of my military hospital role and the initiation of a nonprofit to continue the mission—features interconnected home offices separated by a shared bathroom. Despite the proximity, I resist the urge to interrupt Amanda’s work with my chatter, opting instead to channel thoughts into creative endeavors.
In the initial six months of our relationship, writing took a backseat. Moments shared in bed on a Monday afternoon elicited laughter and a realization that productivity was momentarily sidelined. While the internal voice of self-critique whispered you’re not writing, I acknowledged that learning to love and be loved was equally paramount. Living became my primary focus. This shift did not entirely dispel the anxiety but allowed me to embrace the joy of building a life with someone, reveling in the sheer delight of discovering facets of love and happiness.
This phase marks the pinnacle of my mental well-being. Paradoxically, my writing became sporadic. The stability I currently experience, both personally and professionally, has enabled me to pursue extended residencies and revel in the most secure state of mind I have ever known.
Annie Dillard’s anecdote of papering her office window for focus, Jane Hirshfield’s portrayal of concentration as a poem’s transformative journey, and Grace Cavalieri’s cautionary note on unexpressed thoughts hindering creative flow resonate deeply. To carve out writing space amidst competing priorities and obligations, I must remind myself of the sheer joy found in solitude, prompting a concerted effort to navigate the barriers obstructing the path to creative expression.
Presently, at 4 am, enveloped in darkness as rain cascades outside, I tear myself away from Amanda’s warmth to sit in my office, poised on the cusp of a new day. The words do not flow effortlessly; the process demands diligence unlike the cathartic writing of yore. It necessitates preparation—a steaming pot of coffee, fragrant incense, a journal for handwritten notes, and a few sun salutations. Discipline is key, gently reprimanding distractions that threaten to derail the writing process. The mantra I can resounds, propelling me towards uncharted territories of knowledge.
Last summer, I revisited FAWC—this time as an instructor. Guiding a diverse group of students spanning six decades, I introduced them to my rituals: pranayama, sandalwood incense, and a honey-scented candle, accompanied by the Ukrainian band DakhaBrakha. Together, we delved into the depths of our subconscious, exploring great literature and allowing words to linger in the air. I encouraged them to embrace their quirks, to unearth their creative essence by prioritizing personal needs.
My guidance was merely a suggestion; the students were urged to heed their inner voices. The outcome was a tapestry of phenomenal, poignant, and captivating works: essays, villanelles, free verse, and letters. Following a period of intense writing, we concluded with a three-minute dance party, before venturing back into the sunlight, each responsible for navigating our unique, fleeting lives.