My first child was born shortly after my second novel, Waking Lions, was published in Israel. At first, I felt a great relief, after carrying both of them within me - the baby for nine months, the novel for two years - it was good to know they were finally out. For a few months, there was nothing I wanted more than to stay home with my baby.
But, after a while, I realised I missed writing. It was only then that I fully grasped what Virginia Woolf talked about when she wrote A Room of One's Own. My used-to-be writing desk was now covered with baby stuff. My quiet window to a small garden in Tel Aviv was now shut, so that the baby could nap without disturbance from the Mediterranean sun.
But the worst thing wasn't the toys or the shut-window, it was me. Writing is a very egocentric act. It requires complete focus on oneself: your thoughts, your feelings, your journey through the plot. And motherhood, well, that's the exact opposite - instead of listening to yourself, or giving full attention to the sound of your characters, you are completely tuned-in to someone else.
Even if I did manage to sneak into the other room, my ear was always listening for sounds coming from the baby. After entering the living room 10 times in half an hour, my partner looked at me and said: "You should find a studio".
As I opened my computer to search for one, I found a letter from the Tel Aviv municipality, announcing free temporary studios for artists. Chance was on my side.
The studio I got from the Tel Aviv municipality is set in an old, cramped building near Rabin Square. For years, it was known as "the old Bezeq building". Bezeq, the largest telecommunications group in Israel, operated house landlines from here.
Times change, landlines are becoming history, and the building was sold to a real-estate company. With its great location, right in the town centre, the building was considered a gold mine. The real-estate company plans to destroy it completely, and rebuild it as a luxury-complex for very rich people.
But, in Israel, everything takes time. The real-estate company got into a long fight in court with other owners of the building. While the lawyers fought, the old Bezeq building stood empty, like a huge whale stuck on the sand. The Tel Aviv municipality sprang into action, and decided to make good use of the time - giving the empty operating rooms to artists.
So here we are – writers, musicians, conceptual artists and two theatre groups, sharing three-floors and a very dirty kitchen. I guess everyone's too focused on their art to bother to wash the dishes. In the tunnel under the building, an underground club has temporarily opened its gates. Most nights are gay nights. I know how good the party was by the number of condoms I find the next morning in the shared toilets. But I don't complain – I feel lucky to be here. I prefer the drums in the next studio over the sound of a crying baby, and all the condoms in the toilet can't change the fact that this is my private space.
We could get an evacuation notice any day, so nobody bothers to clean or get too attached - perfect for writing. I sometimes open the real-estate pages, searching for news about the legal situation, hoping that the owners will continue fighting forever. Every few months, there's a knock at the door, and some men in suits come in and tour "their" property. They look at us with the same amazement as we look at them. When we ask if they have any idea about the evacuation date, they say "soon, very soon" and then run off to their business, because for them, time is money. For me, time is more words written in the new manuscript, that I hope to finish before the "get out!" sign is on my door. My contract says I should be ready to leave at a week's notice.
I like this uncertainty. Every day could be the last day; every word could be the last word. This is not the building, this is life.
I sit in front of my temporary desk at my temporary studio. Outside the window, I can see Ibn Gabirol Street. I find it ironic that the most polluted-heavy-traffic street in Tel Aviv is named after an 11th-century Andalusian poet. In front of me, there's a white paper. Its emptiness is a source of inspiration, as well as frustration: it can be everything, or nothing, and when I sit down to write in the morning I have no idea which it will be by the end of the day.
