Greta Garbo should’ve been a writer. She definitely had the right mindset.
Being writers, we often feel a natural inclination to sequester ourselves, to hibernate, to dig a moat around our homes and keep the drawbridge in a permanently upright position. Does that make us anti-social? Maybe. Yet it definitely makes our environment more conducive to writing.
I was probably in my most ideal setting while living in a log cabin in the mountains of Southern Appalachia. No, this wasn’t some ramshackle log cabin with a fly-infested outhouse, a washboard and bucket for cleaning clothes, and dodgy-looking neighbours playing banjos (though they didn’t live too far away!). This was a modern log cabin with a metal roof the squirrels loved to play tag on and a “rocking-chair” back porch/deck with a delightful view of the mountains across the way and the pine and oak-filled valley below.
My cabin was at the top of a mountain and half held up by stilts. The few neighbours around were, in fact, very rarely around. The most activity we had in the hood were the snuffling critters (probably relatives of Teddy Tedaloo‘s) and the weekly trash pickup guy rumbling up the gravel road in his old truck. The setup might’ve been perfect except for the trespassing scorpions and the tornado that passed overhead and the pikey landlord who kept forgetting to pay his mortgage.
I’ve always been highly protective of my own space. I grew up an only child and was usually at my happiest when left alone in my room to do my thing, which consisted of writing, drawing, painting, playing guitar, listening to music and reading. If I wanted company, I’d go out and find it. Most of the time I preferred my own space and still do. When someone else is occupying that space (other than my ursine companion Mr. Tedaloo), it can be very difficult and frustrating, not to mention annoying. Having a partner was definitely a challenge. Usually I couldn’t wait for mine to go off to work (or anywhere that wasn’t where I was) so I could finally do what I needed to do without someone lurking around. Perhaps they should make it a law that writers’ partners live elsewhere and only visit on visiting days!
Obviously some writers are stuck with partners and/or kids and can’t exactly take them back to the store for a refund. It’s even possible they like them enough to keep them around! Some time back I was visiting a writer friend of mine in northern England. We were in his home office thrashing out plot-lines and getting some words down for a novel we were collaborating on when we started to crack up laughing at the absurdity of our work environment. I’m standing there tossing ideas into the air like a carnival barker and there’s my mate sitting at the computer, barely able to type from the dog snoozing on his lap and his wife calling out to him from the kitchen and his teenage son suddenly appearing at the door asking for spending money. However, for my friend it all seemed so natural and even rather endearing. We eventually did finish the book – Phantom: The Immortal (check it out!).
Be that as it may, there’s a lot to be said for solitude if solitude is what you want and need. To quote Henry David Thoreau (who wrote in his book Walden): “I find it wholesome to be alone the greater part of the time. To be in company, even with the best, is soon wearisome and dissipating. I love to be alone. I never found the companion that was so companionable as solitude.” To some this might sound extreme and even rude, though I’m sure there are those among you who get what he meant. Of course Thoreau was writing this while immersing himself in nature and embracing the solitude, seeking out others by choice rather than by force. Most people don’t have that luxury.
As writers, we’re always living inside our heads. Plots and characters and scenes constantly float around in there, waiting to be captured and written down. A solitary lifestyle seems far more natural to our natures and our work. Yet society tells us it isn’t natural to seek solitude. (I suspect a lot of writers would disagree with that.) Instead we’re made to feel as if we need to apologise for daring to desire this solitude, especially if partners and families are part of the landscape. We’re told to embrace the chaos of normal life. Hell, if we wanted a normal life, we wouldn’t have become writers! But in a world filled with people who are all shouting to be heard (and often have nothing to say worth hearing), there’s a lot to be said for solitude.
Now if you’ll excuse me, Teddy and I need to go pull up our drawbridge!
