It was a long time ago, in a different world, I moved to Istanbul on my own, dreaming of becoming something—someone— I had never seen growing up as a kid in a patriarchal neighbourhood in Ankara: a female author.
With me I carried several boxes of books (mostly Russian novels, English sonnets, Greek philosophy and Persian poems ); packs of cigarettes (all writers smoked, I thought); a ruby-coloured carpet with traditional Anatolian designs; a yellow typewriter with German keyboard and an acute feeling of loneliness that never dissipated, before or since. Having no idea at the time about the cost of living in the megalopolis, I decided to rent a house with a nice view. Wasn’t that what authors normally did? What I had in mind was a large, sun-soaked house with high ceilings, tall bookshelves, old pine floorboards and arched windows through which you could see the spectacular view of the Bosphorus.
So off I went to check my options.
And I found that house—more or less. When the landlady asked me what I was doing for a living, I told her I was writing stories and although I was yet to be published, I was determined to dedicate my life to literature. Smiling the saddest smile, she took a step closer and squinted at me, as if I was shrinking in front of her eyes.
‘Darling, can you afford the rent?’
She was right. It turned out that I could not. I should have checked beforehand, of course, but in my defence the real estate agent had said, “visit the place first, see how you feel, then we can negotiate’, hence leaving me in the dark.
Before she politely waved me goodbye, the elderly Istanbulite landlady said: “Such a shame, darling, because this house is the perfect writing space. One will never run out of inspiration in a place like this!’
Having thus learned my lesson, I ended up renting a tiny flat on Kazanci Yokusu—the Street of Cauldron Makers— just a stone’s throw away from the Taksim Square. The layout was so awkward and impractical that to this day I do not believe the architect was sober when they designed it. The S-shaped kitchen was so narrow and unworkable that you could not open the cupboards fully, but only take a peak inside. The bathroom was so compact you could touch opposite walls at the same time as you sighed at yourself in the mirror. The only window in the living room overlooked the teahouse across the street, whence I could hear the sounds of backgammon dice rolling and clinking tea glasses, day and night.
It was no spectacular view. But I found a lot of inspiration there. In that compact, confined space, I was productive. I understood instinctively that we do not really need a fabulous mansion with a breathtaking view. What we need is the freedom to write. Peace of mind. The time and liberty to read and write. A space we can call our own. Somewhere we can retreat into and create a new world.
I am not minimising the importance of daily comforts. They do matter. But what I am trying to say is there is no such thing as the perfect writing space.
One’s writing room can be anywhere. It can be a corner in your garage. A table at the local cafe. A bench at a train station. An old sofa in the attic…. What is essential is not the picturesqueness of the view, but your sense of freedom.
Music, too, has been a space of sorts for me. I regularly listen to heavy metal bands. Since my early youth I have been a passionate metalhead. People don’t quite expect a middle aged Turkish woman to be a headbanger or metal enthusiast, but this is my reality. I particularly love niche Scandinavian bands. Swedish, Gothenburg vibes, Finnish symphonic metal, Viking/Nordic folk metal, melodic death metal, industrial metal, metalcore…. all are among my favourites. When I find a song that speaks to me I put on my headphones, I turn up the volume and listen to the same song on a loop, at least 80-95 times. That is how I focus. That is how I write novels.
The perfect writing space is the inner space.
You could blow me over with a feather, learning that you are a heavy metal fan. Astonishing and quite delightful.
This really resonated with me. I once found a beautiful writing space, a tiny niche on the turn of a staircase, just enough room for a small table and chair tucked underneath. But the window from that nook on the stairs looked over Florence. A bell tower of the nearest church and Brunelleschi's cathedral dome of Santa Maria del Fiore were framed by this small window. Every day of that blessed holiday I sat in this tiny space and wrote in my special notebook. It doesn't matter now what I wrote, but the inspiration stays with me.