People think being a writer must be great. And it is. Great. Truly great. I get paid to write books. Which is killer. Beyond killer.
But it’s also lonely. Beyond lonely.
Was IMing with a friend last night, who’s finishing a book of his own. He didn’t talk about writer’s block or pressure, but of the mind-melting isolation that accompanies much of the process. In a sense, that’s why I’ve come to enjoy the reporting—especially on-sight reporting—more than the writing itself. The writing is, literally, 15 hours per day in front of a laptop, often in a room all alone. I probably mentioned this earlier, but during the dog days of Clemens I, literally, began talking to my dog. Norma is a nice pup, but, well, she doesn’t say much.
I’m not sure of the point here. But next time you complain about your office—the loud talker, the bombastic rectum, the hairy lady who sheds—remember that being alone isn’t all it’s cracked up to.
