And Protect This Space Fiercely.

"Now...I have writing time on my schedule."

Welcome to our weekly column offering perspectives on lit mag publishing, with contributions from readers, writers and editors around the world.

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On November 29, 2024, after reading an email, I clutched the hard texture of my phone like I was touching something soft, something lovely. Sitting in my workspace, at home, I stared through my window, not seeing the plants in my garden, nor the trees outside, the content of the email from Christopher, Editor at SmokeLong Quarterly, swirling in my mind. Congratulations, Banchiwosen! I’ve just taken our Pushcart nominations to the post office and “These Things We Not Saying” is one of them. Wishing you much success! I didn’t know my eyes were leaking until I tasted salt.

I used to think writing is joy rising up from deep inside me, a sunrise, a balloon, a white knight, even though I never gave writing constant care and attention. I used to think there will come a time—one day—when writing will knock on my door, and say to me, it’s time for you to take your writing seriously, even though I taught my public speaking students, the ones who want, more than other careers, a career in public speaking, but are terrified of public speaking, that, even if—especially if—fear looms over your head, a leering shadow, breathing heavily down your neck, waiting for you to scutter away, you must face the leering shadow, and stand in front of people, start speaking, even if you stutter.

I used to be jealous of a painter friend of mine who, in the middle of our dinner conversations in her living room, would lurch from her chair, race to her painting room, then sit on her floor, staring at one of her half-painted paintings, and I would stare at my friend, the light on her face more glittering than the street light coming through the curtain, even though, on those rare times I dared to write, hours flew by when I invented characters and scribbled them on my private journals, for years. I used to make countless excuses for NOT writing, my teaching job is demanding, my students need me, my family needs me, even though I’ve witnessed my painter friend—who runs a busy gallery, has a teenager and a three-year-old and two dogs, and also manages her home all by herself as her husband is out of the country most of the year—become one of the best painters in Addis Ababa, where we live.

Until.

One night, in May 2018, I woke up in the middle of the night. I’d dreamt of a woman searching Google for list of literary journals. She clicks one literary journal after another, putting her name in each literary journal’s search engine. When she sees no story published under her name, not even in one literary journal, her shoulders shrink, her head goes down. That night, when I realized the woman in my dream was me, I made a decision.

Before May 2018, at home, after breakfast, when I had no classes, on those mornings a brilliant idea twirled in my mind, demanding I write it down, I would find myself opening my kitchen water faucet. Hours later, when I would sit to write the brilliant idea that had seemed like it was hanging in the air near my eyes, for the life of me I couldn’t remember.

Now, my dirty dishes (and other tasks I always find myself doing in my kitchen) have to wait—because on the mornings I don’t have a class I have writing time on my schedule. Sometimes, on those mornings, my mind is blank and I want to leave my writing room, do something in my kitchen or call a friend, but I hear writing talking to me, you made a promise to make space for me in your life, no matter what. And I sit in my chair. The surprising thing about writing, after an hour or two of not writing a word, I find myself writing sentences I never thought I’d write, or character backstories that make me sit up in my chair. Sometimes, making space for writing means to not be able to write a word, for hours, but—to honor your commitment to your writing—you stay in the room.

Before I made space for writing, in the one or two free hours I have between classes, my students could come in through my always open office door and ask me questions. Now, in the free hour(s) I have between classes, I write. Every week, I schedule time for my students when I’m available for them. Outside of that time, I’m unavailable. Without writing on my free hours in between classes, I’m not sure I could have found the time to write my debut short story collection out on submission now. Now, my colleagues know I choose to stay in my office in our break times, eager hands scribbling on a writing notebook.

A few weeks ago, when a colleague, a guest lecturer who would give a lecture with me in one of my classes, opened the closed door of my office. Standing in front of my desk, he picked up my notebook, read what I wrote, a couple of phrases. These are not even sentences, he said. So? I asked. He looked at me like he wanted me to leave my chair. I didn’t. Later, he’d tell me he doesn’t understand why I didn’t follow him outside, to talk about the lecture we’re giving in a few days, a lecture we’ve already discussed, in details, in the past few days. He doesn’t understand why I was writing not even sentences in my break time. I’d tell him I don’t need him to understand but to respect my writing time. The phrases I wrote on my notebook would later give birth to other phrases and sentences and paragraphs and scenes and a finished story, my colleague failed to see—and that if you have a full-time job or other responsibilities, this is how you build your writing career, you make space for it, in-between your other responsibilities.

One day, your publication dream will barge in your room, open its arms, wide, and hug you like a long-lost lover’s hug, if you make space for writing in your life. More than the nomination of my flash for a prestigious prize, which I’m humbled by, more than my publication on SmokeLong Quarterly and one of my short stories published on January 7, 2025 in midnight & indigo, in print, I’m glad I made a decision that night, six and half years ago, to make space for writing in my life. That I latched on to writing stories and sending them out to the world the way Randi, one of my painter friend’s dog, grabs a toy from my friend’s three-year-old’s bedroom—and never lets go.

This year, if writing makes you jump from the bed, skip the scattered dirty socks on the floor, and race to your desk, make space for it. And I don’t mean for you to hunker down in the basement, for days or weeks, forgetting the people you love the most in the world, thinking you will connect with them when your writing is done or you achieve success from your words. I don’t want to miss quality time with dear friends or my boyfriend. I don’t want to miss weekend lunches with my mom, nor do I want to push our special time to someday. Today is all I have, but I can make space for writing in my today, can protect that space the same way I protect my time with friends and family, I’ve learned. How you make space for your writing is up to you. Maybe hanging out with your friends can wait for thirty minutes. Maybe, while walking with your friends in the countryside, you tell them you’re going to walk by yourself for an hour because you want an alone time with your characters in the woods.

This year, if—when someone asks you if you like writing—you never answer well, maybe, but always yes!, make space for your writing and protect this space the way a dog growls every time someone—even the person he loves the most in the world—approaches the treasures he has buried in his backyard.

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