Writing in Place

By Jean Iversen






As writers, we’re often encouraged to create a personal, inspiring space to write. Virginia Woolf advocated a room of one’s own. Dickens wrote from a favorite desk and chair. Colson Whitehead writes to a 2,000-song playlist at ear-splitting volume.



Less attention is given to the surprising benefits of writing in the same location in which our stories take place . In other words, we can summon mysterious forces that shift our writing by simply placing ourselves in a certain location.



In 2016, I was writing my first full-length book, centered on Chicago’s culinary history. I drew from my journalism background to gather material from primary sources all over the city, researching, interviewing, and digging my way toward a manuscript that felt rich, informative, and compelling. 



I dumped all my quotes, statistics, and research into separate Word docs for each chapter, then proceeded to sort, resort, weed, and whittle. Writing historical nonfiction is like assembling a thousand puzzle parts, spilling them all onto the floor, and trying to make the pieces fit. My process felt clunky and laborious. I was pretty sure I was doing it all wrong.



I had published articles, features, and a few guidebooks before, and had a couple decades of working in the publishing industry under my belt. But this was my first time writing a full-length book for a publisher.



One of the chapters, on the oldest restaurant in Chicago’s Chinatown, was particularly challenging. Every time I did an interview or dug into Chinatown’s history, I discovered another treasure more fascinating than the last. My source material was becoming unwieldy, barely containable in one, relatively brief chapter. I felt crazed at how to pull it together. 



One day, after yet another interview, I walked over to the Chicago Public Library branch in Chinatown, built just a year before I started the book. From my perch on the second floor, I had a sweeping view of the main intersection that defines Chinatown’s commercial center. To the north were newer developments such as the rebuilt CTA station, bubble tea shops, and eateries offering a quick bite. To the south were what locals called “old guard” establishments, like the 90-year-old restaurant I was writing about.



I took out my laptop and started to tap away. All around me, locals read Chinese newspapers and magazines. The hush enveloped me as I wrote. A chapter title emerged. From the congealed mess in my head, sentences and paragraphs formed. How Cantonese culture struggled to remain relevant; how Mandarin was becoming more dominant; how the third generation of most Chinese immigrant families no longer want to own and operate family restaurants; how the laborious dim sum restaurants were fading away. A couple of related tidbits and factoids slid into sidebars. Before long, I had several solid pages—something I could build on.



Encouraged by this forward movement in my writing, I planted myself in a culinary-school library with a view of Chicago’s skyline to write another section. Sitting just feet away from a first-edition copy of The Joyce Chen Cook Book , I felt similarly inspired, and walked away with a few more solid pages on the origins of American Chinese cuisine.



From the top floor of the National Hellenic Museum, I wrote a section of another chapter on Chicago’s oldest Greek restaurant. It’s not that I was capturing sensory details from these locations, although some of those did slip in. It was more that these locations shifted my energy as a writer. At the risk of slipping into woo woo territory, I felt more connected to the material while writing in the actual location of the story itself. It seemed to free my mind and allow the words to flow.



Ever since I’ve made this discovery, I make it a point to write in a café, library, or other public space near the location of my story. The pandemic made this nearly impossible for a while. But now that I feel safer going to public places, I’m starting to entertain this new part of my process, even if it’s just for a couple of hours.



I’ve been writing stories about my childhood lately, mostly from memory, photos, and scrapbooks. At some point, I know I’ll make at least a couple trips to the place where I grew up. I’ve been putting it off, since I’m nervous about dislodging the very emotions I’m hoping to tap into. But I trust that writing among the streets, homes, and places I once knew will lend a certain depth to my work in ways I have yet to discover.



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Jean Iversen is a Chicago-based writer and editor. Her latest book is Local Flavor: Restaurants That Shaped Chicago’s Neighborhoods (Northwestern University Press, 2018). Her work has appeared in Slag Glass City , Parabola Journal , The Lit Lab , and regional magazines and newspapers. For more information, please visit her website .