This Toronto Life: Writing Spot
Choosing the right writing spot is crucial for me, much like Virginia Woolf emphasized the need for a room of one's own. I've worked tirelessly, with a fierce determination, to carve out this independent space where I can write. Knowing that I have a dedicated place to immerse myself in writing every day acts as a stabilizing force—a kind of personal sanctuary that offers both healing and inspiration. This space isn’t just a physical location; it's the heartbeat of my creative process. In every universe I can imagine, in every ideal life I've ever dreamed of, one thing remains constant.
No matter where I am, no matter the version of reality, I am always writing.
I live in a modest but well-located apartment near King Street West in Toronto, a neighborhood that, in many ways, mirrors the vibrancy of Sanlitun in Beijing. The apartment itself is compact—just one bedroom, an open kitchen, a living room, and a bathroom. It's designed for young urban professionals like me, offering easy access to the city's pulse but with limited space and natural light.
Within this small apartment, there are a few places where I can sit and work. The bed in the bedroom, though cozy, is often too dark. The heavy curtains block out what little sunlight filters through the courtyard-facing windows. Although the U-shaped design of the building shields me from the noise of nearby pubs and bars, it also limits the light that reaches inside. The quiet here is almost too serene, and the dim light in the bedroom has a soporific effect. It’s a place more suited for late-night journaling, where I can spill out my days, than for the focused work of drafting a personal essay or developing a story.
There’s a small desk in the bedroom, but it feels confining. The desk faces a wall covered in a chaotic, floral wallpaper—a remnant of a previous tenant's eclectic taste. The patterns are loud and disorienting, almost mocking my attempts to concentrate. When I sit there, I feel my thoughts bouncing off the walls, unable to find direction, as if they’re caught in the tangled vines of the wallpaper. The space feels claustrophobic, and rather than fostering creativity, it stifles it.
Another potential spot is near the kitchen, but this area is a constant source of distraction. The countertops, a stark and unforgiving white, highlight every tiny stain and speck of dust. My landlord, in her quest for minimalism, painted the kitchen entirely in white, leaving me obsessed with keeping it pristine. When I sit there, instead of writing, I find myself scrubbing the countertops, unable to ignore the smallest smudge.
But in the living room, beside the tall, overstuffed bookshelves and next to the Juliet balcony, I’ve found my true writing hotspot. Here, I have a large, sturdy desk that I’ve positioned perfectly to catch the soft, early morning light. The sunlight doesn’t flood the room, but it’s just enough to cast a gentle glow over my workspace. I can see the trees outside, their leaves rustling with the wind, shifting colors with the seasons—green in spring, golden in autumn. On rainy days, I can hear the steady patter of rain against the windows, a rhythmic backdrop to my thoughts. In winter, the snow falls softly, muffling the world outside, cocooning me in a peaceful silence that allows my mind to roam free.
This spot is where I feel truly alone, but never isolated. I am at the center of the room, which feels like the center of my own universe—a universe that expands with each word I write. Here, I am in control, shaping my thoughts into stories, essays, and poems. I’m often working on multiple projects at once, shifting between them as inspiration strikes. In the morning, I might be drafting a personal essay, exploring the nuances of memory and identity. By afternoon, I’m deep into the fictional world of a short story, losing myself in the lives of my characters. And sometimes, late at night, when the city outside has quieted, I find myself tinkering with a data science model or sketching out ideas for a podcast essay.
My little rented apartment provides me with everything I need to write, though it’s a dynamic space that evolves with my changing needs. I’m constantly rearranging my desk, the bookshelves, even the couch, seeking that perfect alignment that will unlock new creative possibilities. This constant state of flux mirrors my own writing process—I’m always observing, beginning, planning, thinking, and trying, rarely finishing because there’s always something more to explore. Even when I complete a project, a new idea is already germinating in my mind—a blog post, a research essay, a new chapter in my ongoing novel.
Every day, I write at different times, for different reasons, and on different subjects, but the drive to write remains a constant in my life.
My attachment to writing is unwavering. It nourishes me, empowering me to face the day. Without it, I would feel lost, adrift. That’s why the space I’ve created for writing is so vital—it's my exclusive domain, a place where I can be alone with my thoughts and words.
Because, with writing, everything in my life gains meaning and purpose.
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