Being a writer is hard. Mostly because it’s lonely work.
I sit alone in my office and tell myself it’s time to write. But what are other people doing in the world? They’re walking a dog. They’re speeding away to put out fires. They’re watching children on a playground. My imagination doesn’t have to travel far. All of this can be seen and heard from my office windows.
And still I sit.
Last week, I had friends to write with.
We sat around a giant table and wrote together.
There was no talking. But occasionally, when we would stare off into space, into a character’s private world, we would find ourselves staring at each other. That always brought a smile. A quiet smile, because there was no talking.
But in those hours together, I wrote.
I was productive.
I was not alone.
I knew that other writers live like me. They sit. They set themselves apart from the world.
So today as I sit down to write, I try not to think about life outside my windows.
I imagine my friends.
I hear their keys clicking.
I see their seemingly vacant stares, and I know that they are thinking deeply about worlds yet to be revealed.
And I too begin to write.