Words don’t come easy
As a writer, you spend a lot of time by yourself, thinking. Staring at the ceiling with your feet propped on the walls, thinking. Driving around town alone at night with the radio on, thinking. People watching outside a cafe, thinking. There’s no escape from it.
My story chronicles the thin line between being stranded, and choosing to be alone. I wouldn’t say I like being alone so much as it’s what I’m most comfortable with. I can sit by myself and write because there’s nothing else to focus on. When I started this project again, I thought it would be easier the second time around because I’m comfortable by myself. I can sink into that writer’s high.
But as I sit here, alone, in the quiet of the bookstore, with a blinking cursor over a blank page, I realize that it never gets easier. Because sitting by yourself with your thoughts that are a window into your side of humanity is like watching your life on a screen on repeat for hours on hours. And actually writing on paper what plays behind your lids when your eyes are closed is like giving the general public a free screening. Any are welcome, and everyone’s a critic.
Writing never gets easier. As you age and read, you learn a few tricks and how to outline and develop your style. But you’re never where you think you should be. The most terrifying and equally gracious thing about writing is that once the page is no longer blank, you’re no longer alone.