On July 15, the Brooklyn Writers Space (BWS) will cease to exist.

The Brooklyn Writers Space was a co-working townhouse for those who made their art with words. I lived in Brooklyn for 25 years and mostly wrote my stories, songs, and poems from a tiny bedroom in my apartment, a 1926 Candela-designed residence. Back in the day, it was “the maid’s room”, with a mini-bathroom and postage stamp-sized windows that faced south, towards Union Street. It was dark, dingy, and dirty.

That is to say, the space was miserable enough to encourage myriad excuses to interrupt my writing. Tidy the apartment. Start dinner. Walk the dog. Take a nap.

One day, a few years before I left Brooklyn, a new neighbor mentioned that he worked on his TV scripts at this new place on Garfield Place, to get away from apartment distractions. I called up Scott Adkins, who co-founded BWS with his wife, Erin Courtney. They were two playwrights who founded a safe place for other writers in the area. Scott and I met for a tour and I signed up immediately.

Members got a key, and access to a cubby with a power strip and desk lamp. The space had a “break room” with fridge and coffee machine. There was an area to lounge about, and a roof deck.

I would pack my laptop and my folders full of notes, and tell my wife, “OK, I’m going to the writing monastery.” I’d unlock the door, and a wave of good vibes would wash over my neurons. I’d find a cubby, plug in, and wait for the words to start flowing to my fingers.

Nothing.

But invariably, I’d hear the steady “click click click” of other writers banging away on their laptops and my competitive side would emerge. I’ll show YOU! I’d suddenly feel a rush of words and I’d start my story, or scene, or character backstories.

I’d return to my apartment mentally exhausted, and full of pride from the newfound productivity. There were no household distractions. Creativity wafted through the air, thicker than cigar smoke. I met other writers there, some of them famous. Several of them blurbed my first collection of short fiction, Home Front.

Scott organized group readings of BWS members at local venues. I worked up the nerve and volunteered to read at Union Hall.

The batting order that night had me reading my story right after the award-winning playwright Honor Molloy, who read with great proficiency and with a strong Irish dialect. I planned to read my story that night with dialect as well. I figured I was sunk.

Molloy killed. No surprise. She’s a master. I had to up my game. Good news. I, too, killed. Great applause. Great post-event feedback from the packed house. BWS did this for me. It helped me break through my self-doubt regarding my tales. My work resonated. My work belonged.

I kept writing.

After a few years, Brooklyn was no longer viable for us. We passed the baton to a new generation of residents and moved to a leafy quadrant of The Bronx. Thanks to BWS, the training wheels came off my writing. I no longer needed a dedicated space to find “the zone”. To this day, I simply look out the window of my home office and let my brain go off-leash. Et voila. The characters tell me what they want to say and I take dictation for them.

I don’t know why Scott and Erin decided to close BWS. Maybe their lives as gifted playwrights took them away from Brooklyn. Maybe the business model doesn’t work for local writers in a post-pandemic world.

All I know is that BWS introduced me to a gang of talented writers — and I’m still in touch with them to this very day. The space hot-wired my brain to the point where I’ve written Home Front, A Shoebox Full of Money, Robert’s Rules of Innovation (Book I and II), and where I’ve ghost-written three other books. Plus, I’m coming down the home stretch on my third short story collection, which should be ready for take-off in 2024.

Good luck to Scott and Erin, and to all the writers who harnessed the positive energy of BWS to sharpen their skills and share their stories with the world. It was a brilliant idea, and it midwifed a hell of a lot of super work. I’ll always fondly remember my long afternoons at the Writing Monastery. Good work, guys.