Why we need more accessible writing residencies

Last year I checked off a first on my “writing career bingo card”: get a residency. Fast-forward to now, and I’m part way through my eight-week term as the Toi Pōneke (Wellington Arts Centre) d/Deaf and/or Disabled Writer in Residence, working on my new novel from an office with a view over Cuba Street.

Almost any writer will tell you the things they most need are time and space to write. A funded residency is one of the main ways – other than “marrying rich” and “winning lotto” – to achieve that, rather than working in hours eked out around day jobs, finding spaces to fit a laptop. I am aware how lucky I am to have this – and there’s no question it’s allowed me to progress on this work in ways I’d have struggled to without it.

Residencies are also a connection to community and offer a change of scene. Cliché tells me that’s as good as a holiday, but cliché can sometimes be right. Writing in particular has an unfortunate tendency to lead to self-isolation – and adding a fixed location and a sense of structure can sometimes make the difference.

While my residency is a commute rather than a “live-in” arrangement, being based in the central city is making me feel energised, especially after years of working from home. Lurking in some of the places I spent my university years has been great for getting myself in the headspace of the seventeen-year-old protagonist of my novel.

More than that: one opportunity leads to another. Previous residencies are listed on artist CVs, and in applications for funding and other residencies. Every writer I’ve spoken to has made a new connection or been invited to participate in an event or project as a result of their residency.

I applied for a number of residencies before being awarded this one. They’re competitive – and seeing them go to amazing artists (and sometimes also friends) is some comfort. But there were also residencies I didn’t apply to.

Some warned of narrow staircases, no road access or the need for a vehicle. Others provided little information at all, leaving applicants to either put in the work of research at the start, knowing they were unlikely to be selected or risk the crushing disappointment of having a coveted opportunity snatched away when they realised they couldn’t take it up. Barriers are sometimes conceptualised not as problems to be solved, but as tests of how committed applicants are to their art. And there’s always the fear that disclosure will count against you. Instead of official enquiries, I cross-checked information with other writers – is there a bathroom on the same floor? Is there any way to get groceries delivered?

There are always going to be some barriers to these opportunities. Taking up this residency at Toi Pōneke has required careful management of my energy levels. I’ve encountered some challenges I expected and some I didn’t. There are inevitably going to be some days I simply can’t make it into my office space.

But because it’s designed for Deaf and disabled artists, I felt more confident asking questions and communicating my needs, right from the start. I was offered a choice of two different office spaces – and furniture and transport was discussed. The fact it’s part time – and really flexible about when I work these hours – is a major bonus. Not just because of said energy levels, but because I can make it work with a reduced schedule at my day job. While quitting a job is a risk for anyone, knowing how hard it is to be hired as a disabled person makes this, too, an access barrier.

This isn’t the only residency making an effort to be accessible. I know there are some who are dealing with old buildings and limited funds, but are doing their best to mitigate and adequately communicate. In 2025, Verb Wellington offered “at home residencies” which they describe as “particularly for writers who are not able to travel due to personal reasons, such as those with accessibility needs and/or those with young children or care giving commitments”. Others, like Varuna in the NSW Blue Mountains, offer wheelchair accessible rooms and detailed information.

I often think information is the first step in accessibility. Here that definitely applies – it doesn’t solve all problems, but it means people don’t waste time and energy trying to determine if something could work for them. It also means people don’t decide not to apply on the assumption it won’t be accessible. Creating this information is often also a first step in working out other things that can be improved.

No residency is going to be fully accessible to everyone – but many could be more accessible than they are now (especially with supportive funding!), to disabled people but also to others who face barriers, including those on low incomes, parents and others with caregiving responsibilities.

Residencies provide more than what is listed on paper. At the heart of them are accommodation and/or office space and/or financial support, but they go further in opening connections and community, being favourably looked on when assessed for other opportunities, and for introducing others to your work. For me, this is something I acknowledge with gratitude, but I also open the question – with residencies not fully accessible to everyone, how can we open more and different pathways for artists to access these benefits?