A decade ago, well before I dared to call myself a writer and certainly before I published two books, I gave myself the extravagance of a week in a city I’d never been to and where I knew no one. I took a room in Amsterdam near the Concertgebouw. With seven empty days in front of me, I meant to write and remain as quiet as possible. Somehow these two urges were one and the same: the daunting task of facing the clichéd blank page, and a short-lived reprieve from the busy life I led in New York City. Writing was a new passion and I wanted to tease out this notion of quiet and solitary creativity. I took a deep breath and suspected I was there to discover something about myself.
But I couldn’t quite ignore the interior design business I was running. Once a day like clockwork I’d set aside my words and jump on the phone or Skype to check in with contractors on construction sites. With questions answered and problems solved, I’d then open emails to field queries from clients. Inevitably, doubts, fears and indecision peppered their communications. During those calls, as I stared at my writing waiting for me across the room, I was never more conscious of how compromise was inherently embedded into my job as a designer. This meant that floor plans, fabric schemes, and furniture suggestions would be rejected more times than I’d thought possible. I’d then go back to the drawing board to modify things around what my clients preferred. Of course, this accommodation was necessary because my designs were not for me, but for someone else. As a result, some of my best ideas never saw the light of day.
The days proceeded with hours of writing. My nights were filled with music. The Concertgebouw was just down the street, and I’d committed to four consecutive performances featuring not to be missed European orchestras. I knew this world well because before I was a designer I’d spent many years in New York City as a professional oboist. But something unexpected happened at those busman concerts. The polish and beauty was thrilling beyond expectation, but I felt I could see underneath the precision of the performance. I scrutinized the way the oboists moved together and wondered whether they even liked one another. I noticed the timpanist particularly and how the conductor seemed to defer to him. When I closed my eyes, I could hear the culmination of hard-fought musical compromise.
For musicians, it begins alone in the practice room, toiling for incalculable hours perfecting technique, learning notes for upcoming concerts and fleshing out how the music will be rendered. But the alchemy occurs in rehearsal where a necessary sacrifice surfaces: your ideas are either torn to bits or incorporated. Musicians must tolerate both. I remember holding my ground so hard I forgot what I was fighting for. Then, moments later, I’d simply give in because I didn’t have the oomph to stand my ground. But many, many times, I felt an exquisite pleasure because a new idea someone else had offered was better and made for a superior interpretation of the music. Along the way, feelings are hurt, tempers are salved, and egos are tolerated. But the chatter goes on till you walk out on stage and think: “No more talk. Finally, I can just play.”
The final night in Amsterdam I splurged on an expensive meal in a cramped restaurant down the street from the hotel. I ordered, for the first time in my life, oysters. I’d never liked shellfish, but I figured I’d give oysters another try – for Rembrandt, for Amsterdam. One was enough. I shoved the Delft china bowl away with a grimace, but not because of the poor mollusk. Rather, it was the reality that I’d get on a plane the next day and return to my habitual life of other people’s questions, doubts, worries. And yes, strong opinions. And I’d listen to it all and manage it with a smile, surely kindness, and hopefully, grace. I’d agree to another’s momentary whimsy or even an unreasonable demand and I’d make those changes and do my very best to ensure a beautiful result. Accommodation had become a heavy mantle; a personality trait as ingrained as my compulsivity for perfection. After paying my check, I took a long walk, circling the hotel, dodging puddles from the recent rain, trying to sort out what was surfacing in me. And wondering if I dared to even consider the possibility of yet another path in my creative life.
My hotel room was as small as could be imagined, and throughout the past week I’d made a point of keeping the usual messiness inherent in travel to a minimum. I am a tidy person by nature, which is why, when I returned that night and flicked on the overhead light, an ironic smile spread across my face. There it was – right in front of me. Not a typical pile of soiled clothing to be stuffed into my suitcase for the return flight the next morning. But a bed covered with a beautiful mess of papers, notebooks, post-its, my computer, a back-up drive. This was a tableau of a writer’s life. At that moment that I understood what Amsterdam had given me. Writing was the balm I had been waiting for: a way to express something that came only from me. No talk, no context, no interference. On the surface, the notion was frightening – like jumping into a deep well, not knowing if water was there to break my fall. There is treachery in an independent art form such as writing. Inadequacy abounds and loneliness is a certain byproduct. And, I’d have to turn to the mirror again and again to solve my problems. It was a burden I’d gladly shoulder. In Amsterdam, I saw my life roll out before me: the potential of a creative independence and the power of one.