When the Business of Writing Wasn’t Working, I Started a Writing Business

by Marcia LeBeau

I’d been toiling over my first poetry collection for 15 years. At that point, it was 2019 and still nothing was happening. Sure, I’d placed a fair number of poems in literary journals and received a smattering of honorable mentions for poetry prizes, and I truly enjoyed workshopping my poems and sharing them at bookstore and café readings. I grew giddy at writing retreats and conferences in a way that only total immersion with your tribe can, but when I returned home, I would invariably lose the mojo. Friends who had been in the same boat for decades began getting their books accepted. I was genuinely happy for them, but things were starting to feel darkly stagnant for me.

I began to dread the isolation of the daily writing hours. The walk from the computer to the kitchen for an apple or any possible distraction—dishes, opening a bill, taking out the garbage, or “the siren call of the washing machine.” I wished other writer friends could come over and write with me. Or at least labor over the monotonous task of submitting to publications together. One day, when I was dragging my garbage to the curb, my neighbor told me that he and his screenwriting friends traded off going to each other’s dining rooms every month to submit their writing in the company of others. That sounded fun. Or at least, healthy.

Around this time, my photographer husband decided to leave his studio for a bigger space around the corner. We had called the studio, “The Rectangle,” for its long, narrow footprint and wanted to keep it— not only was it quite affordable, we had started a sweet, little gallery to hold weekend and evening art shows which drew enthusiastic crowds and built a sense of community. Besides having children, it felt like it was our only successful collaboration. I didn’t want to lose that. The solution came to me in a flash; I’d turn it into a writing space, not just for me, but as a co-working space for writers. Like a gym with nerdy members. The name came just as quickly, “The Write Space.” When I shared the idea with my husband, an artist short on common sense and big on dreaming, he thought it was a great idea.

There was no talk of money or a business plan. Would this be profitable? Did we have the money to start it up? We’d figure it out. Though I’d be the one holding the reigns, I wouldn’t be driving alone. That’s probably why I was so bold. There is safety in numbers.  

Soon after, my husband and I attended a birthday dinner. I turned to a friend, as I cut into my salmon, and told her I was thinking of turning The Rectangle into a space for writers. Without missing a beat, she said, “I’ll be your first member.” I was dumbstruck. She was a lawyer who had quit law to raise her kids. I had no idea she wrote, but apparently, she had an idea for a novel and had always wanted to sit down and write it. If I could attract people who didn’t even consider themselves writers, the possibilities were endless. That night the decision was sealed.

My husband moved out of The Rectangle, and I moved in. First scrappily, with folding chairs and a few tables. I held a Submission Day like my neighbor described. I’d also recently read that VIDA held similar submission gatherings for women writers. I was part of a movement! And people came. I put a bowl of oranges on the table. We laughed, ate oranges, and submitted our work. It felt good. I talked to other people who owned co-working spaces. They had done lots of research. They had lots of ideas. I probably could have listened better. But I didn’t want to hear about their struggle or how I would never write there myself. I just wanted to get going. I copied the model for a co-working writing space from Paragraph and The Brooklyn Writers Space both of which shared my mission to create a distraction-free space for writers. I wanted to create something in the writing industry and see a tangible result without being rejected. I had gotten enough of those on paper. I knew it would give me more confidence as a writer. After all, no one opens a writing space if they’re not a “real writer.” An aspiring writer at a barbecue once told me, “It’s amazing you call yourself a poet without having a book.” I remember sputtering something about having an MFA and realized she was a black hole sent by the universe to help me stay committed to my life choices, but that didn’t stop that statement from carving a singing groove in my neuropathway.

I held fast to my first member. She would come into that bare space almost every day and we would sit at the folding tables and write. She even brought in a Keurig. She was a blessing. Soon I was itching to decorate The Write Space, put up shelves, make it cozy. But I didn’t know the first thing about decorating a challenging space, especially a business with a very specific purpose. I wanted to create a welcoming and inspiring place for people to write and commune. The interior would also have to be flexible enough to hold workshops and events like readings and happy hours. I knew a decorator who was just starting out and she agreed to add me to her growing roster. Kate helped me transform the space in a matter of months. She even found bookshelf wallpaper from Walmart for the back wall; the colors that pop from those 2-D books are still the first thing you see when you walk in. Then there were real bookshelves with a jungle of plants in the spaces not taken by books.  All genres were represented from my personal collection. We worked up to the day of the opening— January 1, 2020.

The opening was a big, raucous party. Back when parties were raucous. A disco ball hung from the ceiling. Someone sent flowers. I stood on a tasteful wooden table and gave a speech. Guests clapped and whoop-whooped. The next day a writer from a prominent local writing non-profit showed up to talk shop and try out the space for a day of writing. The word was out, and the writers started coming. Many of them I knew, some I didn’t. But I got to know them. My favorite part was, and still is giving tours (which take all of 5 minutes), and then talking to people about their writing, which invariably spills over into their lives. People fell in love with the cozy, warm, and vibrant space, many asking, “Can I just live here?” I felt like nothing was going to stop The Write Space’s success, but that success did stop my own writing. Well, it didn’t exactly stop, but it certainly slowed down. Even with an incredibly simple business model— no merchandise and no on-site employee, this was hard work—even before I added the bells and whistles of classes, events, and readings at night. There’s bookkeeping, invoicing, marketing and dealing with members’ questions and concerns. Not to mention, leaks in the ceiling, replacing toilet paper, cleaning, and taking out the garbage. It was like having a third child. On some days I loved it and some days I didn’t.

Fortunately, my husband did the photography and graphic design for the website. I knew one of the main keys to success was going to be social media marketing, and despite an advertising background, that was not my strong suit. My copywriting background came in handy for sure—but FB and Insta, forget it. “You have to post, post, post” friends told me. “Post at least once a day,” scolded a writer who was uncharacteristically aggressive at putting herself out there. So I started to post. My favorite was my “Wednesday Writer in the Window” post featuring a member sitting in the front window of The Write Space pretending to type at the antique typewriter one of my members had donated. I wanted to host workshops and readings, but how? The editor of a prominent journal who lived locally asked if I wanted to partner on a reading series. The prospect was exciting, but before I had a chance to follow through, Covid hit.

Two and a half months after The Write Space opened its doors, I was filling up the back of my Subaru with the budding plants I had put on the desks and bookshelves. I wanted to be able to water them during what I thought would be a brief hiatus from my dream. (Oh, if only!)

 My 2nd and 4th graders started logging onto school from home. Writers everywhere were desperately trying to connect on Zoom. Everyone was trying to connect on Zoom. The writing accountability group I had started in partnership with Pen Parentis and held at the space went online. That group felt like the only part of The Write Space that was still surviving, despite the fact that most of us rotated crying jags during our check-ins in those early days. I tried to pivot to a virtual The Write Space, but my kids’ constant needs made it impossible. When we realized there was no end to this total upheaval, I began to see The Write Space as a refuge. It was, after all, a space with desks and a back courtyard where kids could play. The Write Space Remote School was born for my kids, and one of their friends, that September. Gym class was in the back, so was recess. There was a mini fridge to keep the lunches cold. We were in survival mode.

The space provided a covid-era outlet in other ways, too. When my husband and I needed at date night dinner out, we ordered take-out and went over to The Write Space. We lit candles and pushed the desks together. Among these date nights was my 46th birthday. After dinner, we sat on the couch in the back lounge, where he surprised me with a Cameo of Larry Wilcox (aka Officer John Baker on Chips) wishing me happy birthday. It was a strange time.

People didn’t return to The Write Space in earnest until 2022. The space had been open for two years with almost no members. Government CARE grants had helped me pay some of my rent. Just when I saw an uptick in interest, PSEG, New Jersey’s public utility electric company, announced plans to construct a massive electrical substation in the middle of our small arts district, right behind The Write Space. We held online community meetings and protested the project, but to no avail. After three years of construction, ten transformers would be supplying electricity to the town and surrounding towns from our backyard. After a global pandemic that wasn’t even over, the word buzz-kill doesn’t even begin to cover it. 

How is it possible to get back to speed on something that never really started in the first place? And to do it despite blocked-off roads, construction crews yelling to each other, jack hammering, and something called vibrator pile driving. None of this was conducive to writing. I wanted to pile drive PSEG daily. I thought seriously about suing them for Loss of Business, but there weren’t enough pro bono lawyers on earth to pile drive this massive, government-owned utility company into submission. I did file a claim, but their response made me feel like David smeared on the sole of Goliath’s boot. I began to long for the days of writing at home.

Despite the construction and lingering COVID-wariness, writers kept coming and falling in love with our little space. Reverse beeping, backhoes, blocked sidewalks, and all. And then, when things were seriously starting to roll—with classes and events and a bevy of great members, a press accepted my poetry manuscript for publication. It was a shock. Only a week before, I had announced I was “quitting poetry” on our accountability Zoom call. I had convinced myself that I was better at managing The Write Space and helping other writers. But there it was, in black and white, an acceptance email with a contract attached. If the universe was sending me a signal to keep going, I guess this was it. Not surprisingly, I suddenly felt more validated to run The Write Space. I hadn’t realized how intimidated I had been by some of the illustrious writers who were regularly coming through The Write Space doors.

It's been a year since my book acceptance and last month I finally have the kind of line-up of workshops and events that I dreamed about years ago. This month, my book will be out and soon the electrical substation construction will end. Things are coming to a beginning. Or an end. It’s hard to tell. But I keep replacing the oranges in the bowl. And we’re still writing.