There’s something lonely about being a writer.
There’s beauty in the loneliness just as there’s a bit of beauty to most everything in life. The solitude of a writer is chosen by the individual. We make the choice to either be the extrovert, spending our moments in live conversation with others in the world, or to be the introvert, thriving in the moments in between the ones spent being an active participant in daily life.
The solitude of a writer is not that of a hermit’s. We cannot possibly shield ourselves from all of life’s social opportunities, as the goings-ons of living is the fuel needed to live our passion. How can one imagine a world that he/ she has not played some part in? Well, I realize your mind may go to fantasy, ect., and that’s a clever point, but you must remember that even the wildest fiction is grounded in some understanding of reality.
So, a writer’s solitude is, to me, the most beautiful of all. Imagine me, the extroverted-introvert— I spend most of my hours during the day that I am awake in the presence of others: a desk job, the gym, my social time with my friends. But still, I schedule time within this life to retreat into the solitude of my own mind and to type out the words that fill it. I choose to spend this time alone; it’s beautiful and magnificent, and it could all be ruined if spent, instead, in the crowded depths of another’s brain.
I find that this is not an isolated circumstance of preference; I find that I love to be alone in a crowd of people paying me no mind— in the pit of a concert, traveling within a busy city, running in a crowded gym… Just as I love to be alone with a blank page, watching the world pass, capturing the noteworthy moments in my heart, and then with a tweak, into words to maybe, someday be shared with you.