I hated coming home. What was supposed to be my safe space, my sanctuary, my little studio, had become just another place with a few tattered walls and a shared roof.
It shouldn't have come to that. I had been waiting for a spot of my own for such a long time. Growing up in a house full of siblings and various pets, personal space was prime real estate. Then, during college at the University of Northern Iowa, I had a handful of roommates throughout the different living situations I found myself in. While it was more often cause for adventure than dread, I nonetheless longed for some silence to recharge on a regular basis. Finally, as a post-grad and back in San Antonio, I again lived with bits of family for a few seasons. I helped them, they helped me. But when the time came when I could afford my own apartment, I sprung at the opportunity.
I was so ready to be on my own. It would finally be my time to start writing my debut novel, to live cinematic moments worthy of telling my grandchildren one day.
My new apartment unit was in the same complex that some of my sisters and I had lived in the year prior, except it was a much smaller one bedroom in a different building around the corner. After friends helped me relocate what little I owned and we set up the new furniture that I bought with an aesthetic bachelor pad design in mind, I sat down in my living room and looked around.
I actually did it. A place of my own.
But then came that Texas summer that makes you want to die. The one where you walk outside for a second, then come back in uncomfortable and sticky. Being on the third floor of the building—previously pitched as a perk to minimize overhead noise and also to take advantage of the much more preferable higher vaulted ceilings—now became a pain because the air conditioning didn't do as well on the third floor. I'd set the temperature at 75, it'd laugh back at me with an 85. Let's not even mention the electric bill.
How could I possibly write my magnum opus with a sheen of moisture collecting on my keyboard?
There was also the cigarette smoke, which was much worse than the temperature. I've always hated cigarettes because I had an uncle who'd smoke around us kids without any bit of common sense or courtesy. The smell truly disgusts me. So, yeah, when smoke started wafting in through my a/c vent from one of the neighbors, and I also started to notice bugs, and my catalytic converter was stolen, and there were random bouts of yelling in the middle of the night, I really started to loathe the place that was supposed to be paradise.
I put up with it for as long as I could, but eventually it became the time to yet again shop around for a new place. Then I would have the proper space to really begin creating. The stories would pour out of me.
But Did You Change?
Now, I'm at a brand-new apartment complex. I'm the first to live in my unit. Sure, it's pricey, but it's been worth it so far. It's definitely got the aesthetics, the curb appeal. I've made friends of my neighbors mainly by my hosting a book club where we sip and yap about stories every month. The gym, pool, and clubhouse are outstanding amenities. The Instagram-worthy kind. There are occasional events hosted with free food and drinks, which, as a budget-conscious dude, I'm always ecstatic about. Compared with my past apartment experiences, it's a stunning living situation.
So, now that the space is in place, the stars aligned, have I truly started creating like I need to? Have I made meaningful strides in drafting my fiction? I mean, I've now cultivated the ideal space for a writer: open journals and scribblings scattered about; books brimming with inspiration on a shelf; a desk in a room with a perfect temperature, the only smoke rising from a wick nestled in a delicious candle.
I'm ashamed to admit it, but sadly, no. I haven't really touched my stories. When I announced through a previous Cristian's Commonplace entry that I was officially drafting my first novel, I really was working toward it. But I let life get in the way. I can go on and on explaining why, like I'm overcommitting to too much, but really it'd all be an excuse. Which is exactly what my waiting for the perfect place for me to write has been all along: a bunch of excuses.
I even wrestled with this kind of concept in an old Medium article, because I often still get caught up in "optimizing" for the right kind of gear to make stuff, like the best computer or software to have all the right tools in place before I begin crafting.
Where We Are
There's a popular phrase often iterated in recovery circles: "Wherever you go, there you are."
The first time a friend told me this, I was like, yeah, that's so good. A Golden Line, for sure. It's a saying that pokes holes at our awaiting for perfection to begin doing what we want to do. It helps combat the arrival fallacies we make up to justify the way we'll constantly put off our day one, our first step, and the journey that follows.
In college, when the idea for my first novel initially awoke me in the middle of the night, I could've forced the proper space to begin writing. A few minutes between classes. Or on the weekend, instead of binging Stranger Things.
At my last apartment, I could've chipped away at it by going to coffee shops or libraries and making that my remote writing studio.
It is comforting that even one of the most notable writers had similar grievances. As mentioned in Daily Rituals: How Artists Work, Franz Kafka wrote this to his fiancée, Felice Bauer, in 1912, "time is short, my strength is limited, the office is a horror, the apartment is noisy, and if a pleasant, straightforward life is not possible then one must try to wriggle through by subtle maneuvers."
No matter where my feet land, there will inevitably always be something to nitpick at. All things get stale. If not watered, all grass loses its color. I need to control what I can and do what I need to do. Because little things often do become big things. So if I can force subtle maneuvers, I'll really be on my way.
Where We Go
So as of today, I need to stop making excuses. Yes, things have certainly been much better than in the past. Back then, I wasn't writing at all. Now, I'm crafting Cristian's Commonplace, and I'm getting a lot of fulfillment by writing these entries to you all. But I need to remember that the newsletter needs to happen concurrently with my fiction.
I'm currently writing this at an Airbnb in El Paso, TX, awaiting one of my best friends' graduation ceremonies from med school. I can't lie, this spot's pretty boujee. The mountains paint the horizon. A crisp pool stirs in front of me. And as I draft this, there is that little voice in the back of my skull saying, "If you had this kind of place, you can really lounge around and write. It'd be pretty sweet, right?"
Well, sure. But I always need to be reminded that wherever I go, there I am. So if I’' someone who makes excuses in poor situations, I’ll find ways to make them in the best of circumstances.
I can do better. I will be better. I'm a writer, but if I want to be an author, I need to write some damn books.
