Most of us live fragmented lives.
No matter which way we turn, someone is clamoring for attention: spouses, children, parents, friends, clients, employers, pets, neighbors, co-workers, opponents, team members, fellow congregants, people who replied to our tweets or posts. They need, they demand, they want. And responding (or ignoring) requires our time and our energy. Continue reading
Solitude: a state or situation in which you are alone usually because you want to be. (Source: Merriam-Webster online dictionary)
A writer’s life is, by definition, solitary. Even those who live with spouses, children, and menageries need to take time apart to write. A few years ago, I attended at talk at R. J. Julia Booksellers by Nichole Bernier, author of The Unfinished Work of Elizabeth D. and the mother of five children. She described how she would retreat to the attic to write and how her husband (who, I suspect, may be up for canonization) periodically sent her off to a hotel for a writing weekend while he stayed home with the kids.
Some writers leave home each day because they have day jobs. Poet Wallace Stevens worked as an attorney at a Hartford-based insurance company. Anthony Trollope famously wrote for three hours every morning before heading off to his job at the Post Office where he introduced the red pillar boxes still seen all over Britain. Whether they adored their coworkers or spent the workday waiting for the moment when they could scurry home to peace and quiet, I don’t know. Continue reading