The problem, of course, is that I embrace the isolation wholeheartedly. I disappear into my house, I make forays out for work and groceries, and that’s it. I spend my weekend days dressed in pyjamas. I work and write and work and write and sooner or later I come out into the world and there’s a novel, yes, but perhaps it isn’t a novel that goes over very well with those who read it, and all of a sudden the thought of more cocooning makes the panic flutter like a small bird in your heart.
But I want to talk to somebody, you say. I want to talk to somebody and I want to spend a week — or weeks — doing something that isn’t writing or work or getting groceries or cleaning all the gunk away from the taps around the kitchen sink. I want to go out. I want to live.
Doesn’t that sound silly? It sounds silly to me. And still I type, still I put the word out. Still sometimes I think, deep down in my soul: is writing really living? Or is it only ever the dream of living, a dream you hope to make so real and wonderful that it will come alive for someone else?
I figured something out at the beginning of the year, I think. Something to do with structure and points of view and how to make things all come together. And now the cocooning doesn’t seem so terrible anymore. Now I look ahead to the days where I can just come home from work and not go out, and I’m excited. To write. To disappear again until another draft is finished.
I feel like there’s a fable in here, somehow. Something about a person who sits down to create a world and comes out to find their own world empty when it’s finished, the memories of people that you used to know just floating on the wind.