I’m not the first artsy type to dream of the creative utopia.
This morning alone, I read blog posts by my dear Marian, by the clever Julie Gardner (whose Today Call Me Bo-curious post actually inspired this post in a weird way), Cheryl, Nichole, and Katie, the Red Dress triumvirate of awesome, and Mandy, who might be the other half of my brain.
Before the week is out, I’ll read pieces by a dozen other writers who have–in addition to blogs, day jobs, families, and new babies–greater literary ambitions.
How on earth are we going to write these novels/memoirs/books with bills to pay and kids to watch? Besides by drinking heavily and/or giving up sleep altogether?
Here’s my 21st Century Writer’s Commune concept:
A modest suburban development–perhaps a cul-de-sac?– of 2-3 bedroom houses with yards that blend into one another. There are schools nearby, decent ones, and a public park, preferably with a pond or lake for swimming and watercraft. We all move in and set up a rotating schedule of collective duties, , gardening, childcare, errand running.
We, the writers, get to work when we’re off-duty, while our children are cared for by people we know and trust, right in the neighborhood. We share resources, gardens, eggs, family meals, expertise in non-writing topics, writerly advice. Our non-writer partners are free to pursue their careers free from the strain of a crazed writer with spinny-eyes and stained pants wandering their houses looking for the children/dog/cat/fish/clean underwear (what? that doesn’t happen at your house?).
What do you say? Are you in?