My husband periodically expresses concern at my lack of interaction with people.  To hear him talk, you’d think I spend all day, every day locked up in a darkened room draped with cobwebs and dead things.  He seems to think I have cut myself off from the real world and am afraid to let anyone near me.

I can sort of  see his point but the reality is that as someone who is trying to write a novel I need to spend long chunks of time alone and uninterrupted. It is sort of a pre-requisite.
Truth be told I do rather enjoy this solitary existence. I don’t have to smile at people I don’t feel like smiling at and I quite enjoy my own company.  I don’t nag nearly so much when there is nobody around to piss me off and it turns out I am quite entertaining.  That’s what the dogs tell me, anyway.
Oh, and I rather prefer not to share my working space with dead things and have, in fact, been known to run a duster around the room so there are very few cobwebs. Not at first glance anyway.

Unfortunately what he does not see is that although there are supposedly many hours in a working day, when I am alone they pass so quickly in front of the computer that I lament the lack of time I have to write. I don’t want to stop writing at 5 o’clock when he comes home… hence my crankiness.  I am not cranky out of loneliness.  I get cranky about being dragged away from writing.

Besides, I have my version of a waitressing job – something to earn me the cash to support my writing habit.  I spend three or four nights a week teaching people to dance.  This would not be possible if there were not actual people involved.  So it’s not like I don’t have any interaction with people.

But the bottom line is that writers write.  It’s hard to write if we’re busy doing other things and when we are kept from writing we tend to grow anxious.  I can totally understand now how some might rent a house in the country (or at the beach) for three months at a stretch, in order to get some work done.

Some people might think that sounds terribly eccentric and lonely.  To me, it sounds like a bloody brilliant idea.

Then again, nobody ever accused me of being normal.