Virginia Woolf discussed the desire, both literally and metaphorically, for a room of one’s own almost one hundred years ago. Yet, it seems that the desire for such can still be deemed odd or novel.

While in college I yearned for an off-campus living arrangement. As soon as I was permitted, in my sophomore year, I found a place. There were four of us sharing the apartment. Although each of us had our own room, the common areas were perpetually used for impromptu social gatherings, and the television was usually on. I woke up at 5 a.m. to study, an hour when everyone else slept, and focus on my work. I also sought the individual cubicles at the library for my evening study hours.

I found communal living pleasant enough, but ultimately not convenient nor satisfying. When I mentioned to friends that I might prefer living alone, they disagreed and assured me that I would be lonely. In any case, my limited budget placed the idea out of my reach. I settled into an arrangement that insured my scholastic success, but the gnawing desire to live alone continued.

Some years later my career finally afforded me the funds to have an apartment of my own. I recall closing the door for the first time and leaving the outside world behind me. I knew even then that I was not going to be lonely after all.