Writing is a lonely activity. The end goal is often community, though. You exchange the loneliness for a book deal and lots of people read your work. In theory. For those who don’t get published, is the loneliness for nothing?
To me, writing is its own reward. It is a crying shame that other people won’t read it, but it is my personal cry against being forgotten. I don’t hang out with friends, so read my writing.
The world’s a busy place with work demanding it’s 99 percent of flesh and little time is left besides to do what one wants. Weekends are for errands. Or friends. Or writing.
Writing for me is all about generating friends. I’m a nice guy—you’ll have to take my word for that, but it’s true—but I’m also shy. I watch other people. I write about what I see. What I imagine happens among friends.
The results may not be sparkly, but I notice the grit on the sidewalk shines too. I’ve always told my writing partner Elizabeth that there’s no right way to write. We who do know.
When I was a high school student we were required to read The Loneliness of the Long-Distance Runner. It was relatively new literature at the time. I don’t even remember who the author was. Now wait a moment—with the internet there’s no excuse.
Okay, it was by Alan Sillitoe, and it was published before I was born. It was even made into a movie. In any case, none of us in my high school wanted to read it. This was a small town school and if we didn’t have to read the usual—To Kill a Mockingbird was a favorite, or Silas Marner—we didn’t want to read at all.
One kid drove his pencil through the cover of the paperback in frustration. So much for contemporary literature.
So I continue to spend my free time alone with my imagination. I keep on churning out novels that no one will read. That’s okay, I’m inventing my own friends. And they live the lives I live in my head.
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