solo dinners, a cute dress, and a Substack article

a quick response to Virginia Woolf's "A Room of One's Own"

I don myself with a black dress with flared sleeves and stare in the mirror contentedly as I examine my freshly brushed curtain bangs, and the same dress that has never disappointed me. Slipping on my black peacoat, I put on my slides and ventured out of my place.

I figured I’d go for an evening event at the museum, and then sit alone in an Italian restaurant with low light, a glass of red, and a happy plate of penne alla vodka.

No one else shows up to the event but me. I get the curator all to myself, and she kindly walks me around the gallery, teaching me and answering all of my questions. I thank her at the end, head to the parking garage, and venture out for my solo dinner.

“Table for one, please,” I tell the host, and he looks at me with a wash of confusion, but more than anything, pleasant surprise. I am seated, have small talk with my waiter, place my order, and intermittently sip my red while scrolling on Substack on my phone. I become engrossed in what I’m reading and get inspired. Before I know it, I’m forking penne into my mouth and jotting ideas into my Notes app to flesh out later.

Another day, I wake up and walk into the library. I’ve never given this entrance much thought before, but it had been about two days since I finished “A Room of One’s Own,” and I had a fresh perspective.

Woolf writes about this library she went to and chronicles her experience with not being let in as a woman without a male scholar to accompany her or a written letter to give her permission. I looked at the entrance of the library and felt particularly moved that I was going to simply walk in and have access to whatever I wanted, no permission needed. So many worlds and experiences, thoughts and ideas bound to each spine, and no one is here to hinder me.

On a weekday morning, I prepare my French press and slide my tea cup, a small milk pitcher, and my French press onto a silver tray and head into my room to read. Not long after, I’ll write a piece, and a sign on my closed door is hung up by red plaid ribbon, and attached to it is a sign I made on Canva that reads “WRITER IN RESIDENCE: PLEASE DO NOT DISTURB”. And no one in my home will disturb me. Not for dishes, not for laundry, not for much of anything, because by the grace of God, things are a little different these days.

Virginia Woolf’s ultimate argument is “A woman must have money and a room of her own if she is to write fiction.” She writes about how it was virtually impossible for women to have the time and resources to do this in her day, and that she was only one of the few fortunate ones because she was left an inheritance of 500 pounds a year and has the freedom, flexibility, and resources to do what she does.

She shares that even Jane Austen is an anomaly for getting her books written because women lived a summoned life and simply would not have the time or money to sit down and be respected to get away and write, always being called away. Austen only told very close family members about her writing, and even then, hid much of her work under blotting paper since she wrote her work in public spaces.

I do not take this history for granted.

So many women have gone before who would have been excellent writers who never got the opportunity, a sentiment that Woolf shares as well. And as times have changed, many women have also gone before me who fought hard for me to have the opportunity to sit down with my MacBook and so freely be received and respected as a female writer.

A solo dinner, money to pay for it, a tray of fresh brew, a library visit, a writing session in a room of my own. I consider these experiences that have become common to me, and think, so this is what it feels like. And it’s all very good. I am a grateful woman for money and a room of my own.

With love,

Rebecca