Things Best Done Alone

Writing is kind of like sex. It feels wonderful, but it is really difficult to manage with someone watching you. I live in a small place, with a partner. I have to get up very early to write, before my significant other is awake.

Even if someone is not paying attention, but is in the same room, I can’t perform. Writing is a solitary activity. Tricky for those of us who can’t afford a house, or at least a large apartment.

My writing partner Fantasia asked me recently if I have a special place. Ever since reading Little Women many years ago, I’ve often thought about the habits of writers. I’ve never had enough money to afford a domicile with a special place. I don’t have a study or den. I have a chair that I favor in the living room.

This chair affords me a view of all other rooms without doors in my apartment. I can see if anyone else can see me. If a door is open. If I am not alone. I really want a special place.

In grade school we had an assignment to find a special place. Being shy, and always a bit uncertain about how much public space I could use, I looked for a place at home. Our house was tiny and I have three siblings. Outside, everything was open. Nowhere to hide. I did my writing wherever I happened to be.

My first stories were written in study hall or after I finished homework in class. Nobody paid attention to me, and I could write in front of others.

When my thoughts grew more mature, I couldn’t have anyone looking. I can write with another writer in the room, sometimes. Such a person understands what I’m going through. How I struggle. The contortions on my face.

As I have grown older I have become sensitive to interruptions. Another person moving around demands my attention. It is far easier to deprive myself of sleep to have time alone. Writing must be obeyed. I can live no other way.

Think me not unkind or rude when I glance around as I pull out my laptop. If I see you there it’s not personal when I put it away. Some things are only possible in private.

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