Those first few days of being by myself in my flat—decorated with my choice of colours, with my books on the shelves and my pictures, hung by me, on my walls—were disconcerting (使人不安的). I walked around the few rooms, wondering what to do now. With no one to move around, no one to talk to, no one to ask me how my day had been, I didn’t know where to put myself. The life I had once assumed—the one with a partner and a house and a family—had vanished. Here I was, facing a new future, living by myself.
That trepidation (惊恐), that anxiety, soon turned into a feeling of liberation.
Living alone gave me a sense of freedom I hadn’t known I’d craved. In my own flat, with my own space, I started to write with a renewed energy. I’d spent years writing the first draft of a novel—years filled with interruptions and squeezed space. Within months, I had finished a book.
By taking control of my physical space, I opened up a new emotional space for myself. I was working harder and better than I’d ever worked before. My self-image changed with the move, too. I started calling myself a writer. In Woolfspeak, I had found my “room of one’s own (见Tip)” where I could carve out a space for my creative self.