Writers at Work

I’ve visited the writing spaces of William Faulkner, Eudora Welty, and other literary heroes, but not because I think it will help my own writing.

That seems to be the motivation for some, especially in the aspiring set. That by seeing how the masters did it, to see the chairs in which they parked their keisters and the keys on which they pecked, or how yonder window caught the morning light, they might gather clues, insight, a way forward with their own stories.

If only. Because every writer is different, whether it’s in want of a quiet, sparsely appointed room or one filled with what might be called a curated chaos. Whether the preference is for an abiding silence or birdsong from an open window, or a turntable nearby playing “Byrd Blows on Beacon Hill.”

The sole common denominator, I suspect, is that the writer’s space is where the work got done. The where or how is interesting, but not nearly as important.

Discipline writes books. Hard work makes literary history. And the muse is a harsh quarry master.

That’s the value of visiting the working haunts of beloved writers, I think. To realize, or remember, that writing is toil.

They’re shrines, these writing rooms. Shrines to the struggle.

Put another way: I like visiting these sainted spaces for the same reason I like visiting old Civil War sites.

To see where the battles took place.

On the writing front, they can happen anywhere, at any time. James Baldwin liked to wait until everyone else was in bed. Paul Bowles wrote in bed. Likewise Truman Capote, who said, “I am a completely horizontal author.”

Faulkner’s office at Rowan Oak is an iconic sight, from the portable Underwood by the window to the handwritten outline for A Fable on the wall. But a Google search will bring up photos of Faulkner writing in a variety of places. The most striking is from his Hollywood days and shows a shirtless Faulkner in shorts and sunglasses, poised over a typewriter.

It’s hard to square the Faulkner of that Hollywood photo with the self-described “farmer who likes to tell stories,” the writer who famously said, “My own experience has been that the tools I need for my trade are paper, tobacco, food, and a little whiskey.”

The writer in that Hollywood photo might sub out whiskey for a Mai Tai — or, these days, SPF 30 sunscreen.

But maybe that photo makes the point best of all. Because Faulkner was half a country removed from Rowan Oak, set down in the land of sun and stars, but still there was work to do. The movies, like the books, did not write themselves.

As for what Faulkner got up to when he wasn’t writing — drinking, so much drinking, to the point of debilitation; the affairs; reckless living — that goes to show, too. It goes to show what a toll the hard work of writing can take on a dedicated practitioner.

No wonder Faulkner suggested his own epitaph: “He made the books and he died.” 

Loose translation: Writing is hard. Life is impossible.

All of which is a long way of saying that writing is a vast country with no shortcuts. Prepare yourself accordingly. Carve out time and a space to work. Show up regularly — it’s a job even if there’s no money in it. It’s a trade, as Faulkner said. As for the space, it can be small and silent and tidy, or a holy mess. It can be a glorified closet, a cabin in the woods, a train car, your favorite bar.

As for visiting a writer’s work space, yes. Do that, absolutely. Soak up that history, try to summon the ghosts. If nothing else, stand near where where those great books were conceived and written. Whether it’s at Rowan Oak or down on Pinehurst Street in Jackson, Mississippi, you may find yourself newly inspired as a writer.

Just remember, though. It’s what you do when you get home that matters.

 

Copyright (c) 2026 by David Wesley Williams. All rights reserved.