Why I Shouldn’t Write at Home
I’m still working on my Mamdani post. Wait for it. I’ve been whiplashed by events lately.
A lot of people would have entitled this, “Why You Shouldn’t Work at Home,” but I have an aversion to that. What works for me doesn’t necessarily work for you.
That said I do think most people, shouldn’t work at home.
It wasn’t true of John Updike — but he had a dedicated study in a spacious home. I live in an apartment.
For years, I told myself I couldn’t write at home, so I’d find a place outside. When I had the money, I rented co-working spaces, which were cheap before Covid. Not Starbucks—that’s too noisy. The main reading room of the 42nd Street Library is magnificent, but it means a commute1, and one of the advantages of retirement is not commuting, but I did that on a fairly regular basis. After Covid co-working spaces shot up in price.
It — this weakness — got to me. If others could write novels from their kitchen tables, I could too.
I began writing at home, determined to prove myself wrong. I began working on a novel I’d put aside a year ago at home.
It worked. I worked. I had my laptop, my coffee, my silence. But then reality crept in. After a while, I realized that it was noon and I hadn’t brushed my teeth. I hadn’t gotten dressed. I hadn’t even moved. My body was still in bed-mode while my brain tried to draft sentences with literary craft.
When I finally stood up, it took five minutes to come back to earth and worse, I didn’t land gently. I thudded into an apartment that felt chaotic—though objectively, it wasn’t. But the atmosphere was wrong. The air was thick with undone laundry and existential dread. My home had become a psychological funhouse: mirrors everywhere, none flattering.
So, take a break. Walk outside. Go to the gym. Shop. But even that didn’t work.
Turning my hone into a place of judgement, of “I must do this,” “I must hit this benchmark”—which is what work is, was severely dysregulating to my mental health. Everything was upside down.
So I did something radical. I decided to spend money on a membership to a private library. The only drawback is that you can’t drink coffee there (for good reason). But they do allow water bottles. I can live with that.
I haven’t gone there yet. I’ll begin next week. But I already feel good about it.
Here’s the truth: I can work at home. But I shouldn’t. Home is for living. For loafing. For doing things you don’t get paid for, like watching AI cat videos.
And, nowadays, being checked in by a security guard. So annoying.