Word Spaces
A Cambodian Reflection on Virginia Woolf
In 1929, Virginia Woolf rallied that women need a room of their own, not just to be a writer but to be free. Free here is used loosely. Freedom has more to do with creativity and empowerment, which may ultimately be what “freedom” means. I just want to differentiate between “freedom” in the constitutive or religious or new age definitions and what I mean.
I first read Woolf when I was eighteen or nineteen. In the most cliché ways, she totally rocked my world. Back then, I was some suffering, struggling poet—and a very bad poet too! Since then, I make it a point to teach her to my first years, hoping she’d inspire them to think critically, in the same ways she’s inspired me. And she did inspire me: I believed her. I believed I needed a room of my own to write, to be a good writer.
But driving through the Cambodian countryside—countryside here being a very poor translation. Here’s the problem with language, yeah? I say countryside to many Westerners, 
and they (WE) think of pastoral cowfields or quaint little bed & breakfasts—I’m reminded of Woolf and her call for a room. See: the houses in Cambodia sit on stilts (which is utterly irrelevant to my point, more of a cool observation) and they don’t have any doors, or rather, if they do have doors, they’re never closed. Driving by, anyone can see straight through the houses, which are more like shacks. They’re small, no bigger than my two bedroom apartment, and there aren’t even walls to differentiate personal, individualized space.
Another side-note: it’s not uncommon for newly married couples, especially in the country, to live with the bride’s family for a period of time after marriage, or at least until they can afford their own home.
So imagine scoring yourself some hot bride and moving in with her parents, in a home without doors and walls. Or imagine scoring yourself some hot groom and bringing him home to live with your parents, in a home without doors or walls. But that’s not my point.
Driving through Cambodia, I wonder if Woolf was right, if a “room of my own” is what I need. (I’m not even touching her second requirement—an allowance—which is highly problematic in a very privileged way.) On this trip, I’ve noticed how much “space” I need as an American, how quiet we are—good God, there’s nothing so loud as 45 Vietnamese people on a tourbus together!—and how much I value my privacy. This isn’t uncommon for Americans as a whole, but it seems like as writer-artist-creative types, we covet these things diligence.
This is meandering, and you’ll have to forgive me. In the States, I get a lot of “cred” for being a “writer.” When I used to teach, my very generous chair would make all sorts of “allowances” for my creative freedom. People expect me to be quirky, socially awkward, etc. The few people on this trip who know I’m a writer could care less. Sure, they think books are nice, but they value my being “American” much more than my CV. If anything, my awkwardness and nervousness is called “snobbery” on account of my being “better” than the others here because I’m American.
So here I am, back to Woolf & this room business. I’m caught thinking about how different the lives of the people here are, how poor they are (a quick anecdote: my tour guide says, “You can tell the Cambodian people are poorer than our—Vietnamese—people by looking at their water buffalo.” So I look at their emaciated, dusty water buffalo. I’m not sure Vietnamese water buffalo look any different, as I’m not entirely sure I’ve seen one in real life, but if these animals are any indication of wealth, I have to admit, it’s pretty dismal.), I’m caught thinking about Shakespeare’s sister. Fuck: I could take gender out of the picture here & just say Shakespeare. Cambodia has a lot of art, yes. No question about it. I’ve spent the last few days seeing its incredible legacy, but here and now, in the Cambodian countryside, there are no rooms. There are no doors. There’s very little money, if any at all.
What is the relationship between space & creativity? How different would our lives be if we lived in houses without doors, spaces without barrier? Would we, in fact, have better lives? (I’m not saying we should all live below the poverty level, etc. Rather, I’m just thinking about space, rooms, walls.) Would our “art” improve?
So here’s my point—Do I have a point!?!—one is obvious: my circumstance is linked inextricably to my writing, that is, the fact that I’m a privileged American has everything to do with my “freedom” to be a writer. I think about this all the time. Nothing new. But what is new development for me is the role of physical space and writing. I’ve always fancied myself as someone who can write anywhere. It’s something of a joke. Because when it comes down to it, I’m armed with my Moleskine journals and my MacBook Pro, my fair trade organic coffee & my Pink Noise or iTunes. I’ve been able to write because I’ve had the privilege to be able to, because I’ve had a room of my own—despite my own, often very romantic, notions of being racialized Other—and I’ve had, in some form or another, an allowance, though mostly an allowance that I’ve earned myself.
But the Cambodians in the countryside, where is their room? Where is their allowance? And yet, people are writers here too, despite what Woolf called for. So I wonder how much of Woolf’s demands have to do with personal comfort and how much of it has to do with necessity.
Man, this is not going at all how I expected it to. I wanted to make some grand point about space and writing, privacy and creativity. Instead, this has become something else entirely. I’m not even sure what.
But even now, it’s not like I’m willing to give up my pleasures, nor would I want to. I just observe how other people live, make some clever points about it, and go back to my cush life. I want to be challenged just enough to question my life without doing much else. What can I say? I’m American.
Ok. I’ve been typing on this long enough. Take out of this what you will. I’ll have more reflections on Southeast Asia to come. You can look forward to one about haggling, at the very minimum.
Tags: cambodia, Virginia Woolf
Thanks, Lily! Very thoughtful and worthwhile. Various parts of this (“my circumstance is linked inextricably to my writing, that is, the fact that I’m a privileged American has everything to do with my “freedom” to be a writer”) made me think of this recent Junot Diaz quote: “I think that at least a third to half of all MFA seats should be reserved for people with families.”
(I’m feeling too lazy to situate this quote and relate it back to the post at hand, but I’m confident you guys are smart and could do so)
Thanks, Lily! Very thoughtful and worthwhile. Various parts of this (“my circumstance is linked inextricably to my writing, that is, the fact that I’m a privileged American has everything to do with my “freedom” to be a writer”) made me think of this recent Junot Diaz quote: “I think that at least a third to half of all MFA seats should be reserved for people with families.”
(I’m feeling too lazy to situate this quote and relate it back to the post at hand, but I’m confident you guys are smart and could do so)
yes yes yes.
I think your point is in your fifth paragraph to the end. I think it is important too. We writers, we discussers of prose, we Americans, or at least we who live in America, have extreme privilage, whether you are a poet or not. We are fortunate that we have all the paper and pens we ever need.
Most of the world’s humans do not have a room of their own. To be somewhat cliche (accent on the e), in many ways it comes down to Maslow’s hierarchy of needs. We are safe and secure, one cannot look through our homes, we have doors (with locks even). We don’t face any existential threat, so yeah, we can cultivate ourselves, write, paint, do yoga, really whatever we feel like.
I have a quesiton. Is the “room” no longer relevant? 2010 is not the same as 1929, as far as what Woolf was speaking about, is it? Do (most) American women have rooms of their own if they so desire?
And the guilt you have is healthy. Thanks for the post.
yes yes yes.
I think your point is in your fifth paragraph to the end. I think it is important too. We writers, we discussers of prose, we Americans, or at least we who live in America, have extreme privilage, whether you are a poet or not. We are fortunate that we have all the paper and pens we ever need.
Most of the world’s humans do not have a room of their own. To be somewhat cliche (accent on the e), in many ways it comes down to Maslow’s hierarchy of needs. We are safe and secure, one cannot look through our homes, we have doors (with locks even). We don’t face any existential threat, so yeah, we can cultivate ourselves, write, paint, do yoga, really whatever we feel like.
I have a quesiton. Is the “room” no longer relevant? 2010 is not the same as 1929, as far as what Woolf was speaking about, is it? Do (most) American women have rooms of their own if they so desire?
And the guilt you have is healthy. Thanks for the post.
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Maybe it’s just me but I never thought Virgina meant room as a box in which we do things or freedom as anything more than permission for ourselves to be have the freedom within ourselves to write – kind of like permission to be and say what we need to only without having to first seek permission – even from ourselves.
Maybe it’s just me but I never thought Virgina meant room as a box in which we do things or freedom as anything more than permission for ourselves to be have the freedom within ourselves to write – kind of like permission to be and say what we need to only without having to first seek permission – even from ourselves.
Hey Lily! Thanks so much for this post. It’s got me thinking. Glad to feel my thoughts mirrored in others.
Hey Lily! Thanks so much for this post. It’s got me thinking. Glad to feel my thoughts mirrored in others.
This article caught my eye as a resident in Cambodia, a writer, and someone prone to considering the differences and similarities between people. And, I might add, not being American (but Australian) probably gives me a slightly different perspective.
The vast majority of Cambodian people, especially those outside the capital Phnom Penh, have very little education, and where people are educated the culture is not motivated towards creativity or sophistication. The people, however, are extremely friendly, affectionate, family-oriented and generous.
Artists here are closer to what in the west we would call craftsmen, closer to a spirit of professionalism or vocation about their work than to a spirit of freedom of expression (although in the few urban centres this is changing slowly). And when life is tough, and day to day choices are being made about how the family is to feed itself, very few have the room of their own to even consider what we view as the right of the artist, to dream and to create.
The anguish that we may feel as artists, the need to create despite difficult circumstances and how much easier it would be if things were easier … well, everybody struggles. Just in different ways. When our backgrounds, influences and situations are broader and create more opportunties, we create more anxiety and demand more. In the villages people have their roles, their places, their families, and while it may be a hard life it has a peace about it that westerners can only dream about.
Our lives create our own rooms, whether we are seeking doors to open or doors to close.
I look forward to hearing more of your impressions of SEA – it’s a magic place.
This article caught my eye as a resident in Cambodia, a writer, and someone prone to considering the differences and similarities between people. And, I might add, not being American (but Australian) probably gives me a slightly different perspective.
The vast majority of Cambodian people, especially those outside the capital Phnom Penh, have very little education, and where people are educated the culture is not motivated towards creativity or sophistication. The people, however, are extremely friendly, affectionate, family-oriented and generous.
Artists here are closer to what in the west we would call craftsmen, closer to a spirit of professionalism or vocation about their work than to a spirit of freedom of expression (although in the few urban centres this is changing slowly). And when life is tough, and day to day choices are being made about how the family is to feed itself, very few have the room of their own to even consider what we view as the right of the artist, to dream and to create.
The anguish that we may feel as artists, the need to create despite difficult circumstances and how much easier it would be if things were easier … well, everybody struggles. Just in different ways. When our backgrounds, influences and situations are broader and create more opportunties, we create more anxiety and demand more. In the villages people have their roles, their places, their families, and while it may be a hard life it has a peace about it that westerners can only dream about.
Our lives create our own rooms, whether we are seeking doors to open or doors to close.
I look forward to hearing more of your impressions of SEA – it’s a magic place.
[…] Six months ago, I was in Cambodia, where I saw houses that jarred me out of complacency, thinking over Woolf’s call “that it is necessary to have five hundred a year and a room with a lock on the door if you are to write fiction or poetry” (105). You can read about it here. […]