Writing a book can sometimes become maddening after prolonged isolation. Even if you pepper in a couple other projects, you still need to spend countless hours alone with your thoughts. You may look like you're gardening or washing the dishes or playing video games (Doom has been consuming me of late), but all the while you're writing. Like globs of clay morphing into recognizable forms, characters grow and advance while you're busy doing other things. Then you need even more alone time to pull those threads from your mind so you can weave them into the great tapestry of your tale.
I told myself I was going to force myself into this isolation in order to finish my book after having a giant, months-long dent in my timeline. (Buying a house and moving took a heck of a lot more work than I ever imagined.)
During the time in which we were moving, I was talking to tons of people daily while running around either packing or unpacking. Constantly on the go. Constantly socializing.
But then once we settled in, I realized I had more time to myself and could finally get back to writing.
And so far it's been working. I've finished another 25% of the story and have 25% to go.
Yet now, it's been a few weeks of long stretches of alone time, and I'm starting to feel that old, familiar feeling.
The one that creeps up on you...
Makes you wonder...
Am I completely bonkers?
Here I have cut myself off from a bunch of social events, and doing pretty much anything else, all to write this book.
I could be writing more articles for magazines and, maybe, making a little money too.
I could be submitting more poetry or, perhaps even, short stories to anthologies.
I could be trying to get a staff writing job on a TV show and work my way up.
I could be out there networking and meeting other writers and creators with whom to collaborate.
But instead I'm alone in my office staring at the blank page as I beckon words to bubble forth from my mind onto the page below.
Is it worth it? (Yes.)
Do I have to do this? (Yes.)
Will anyone read this? (Doesn't matter.)
There's a story in my brain that needs out.
There's a gang of characters that keep whispering their dialogue to me.
My inner eye lights up like a movie screen.
I must keep writing.
Even if the world crumbles into chaos beyond these walls.