It is almost bizarre, if not simply incorrect, that I have not broached this topic in the past 41 weeks.
But, on the other hand, I have not really been writing, the entire time, so perhaps it does make some sense.
Nonetheless, it is a big part of being a writer. Many would agree it to be a necessary part of being a writer.
We wander the world, we watch, we listen. But one would not write facing a maddening crowd, with a bunch of buddies cheering at every successfully executed metaphor, while that one snippy guy jeered at every clumsy turn of phrase.
You know, it is a great feeling, when you are totally immersed into your work, so much so that you completely lose track of time, inadvertently end up missing your meals, and often forget the entire world around you. It is your own personal cocoon, a blissful oblivion.
It is, however, not perfect.
After all, nobody wants to be alone.
Solitude gives birth to the original in us, to beauty unfamiliar and perilous—to poetry. But also, it gives birth to the opposite: to the perverse, the illicit, the absurd.
—Thomas Mann, Death in Venice and Other Tales