Spent the entire day in the car today driving back to my cave of solitude. Everyone always looks at you like you’re such a nice little martyr when you drive a long way, like it was some sort of terrible torture. In a way, I get that. You’re literally imprisoned to a seat in a car under a certain speed limit. But, honestly, I never feel so free as I do when I’m driving.
I love everything about it–driving super-human fast, no traffic, down a wonderfully twisted road. Granted, I-10 is straight as an arrow, but there is nothing better than setting the cruise control, cranking whatever horrible music you don’t have to share with someone else, and just going as loud and fast as you can.
I always get some of my best thinking done during transportation. Planes, trains, cars. You have to be alone though, other people are the key to drowning thoughts. This is how I started all of my best stories: alone on the road.
It’s, weirdly, nice to be back in my quiet little nest. The extended weekend was wonderful, but if anything it proved that I was right to leave. I miss the people I left in New Orleans terribly, but isolation is what I need now. This is where I should be in order to work. Not forever, but for this project. Everyone asking me to come back made me feel as though what I am working on is possible in their company, but it really isn’t. I need to be alone with my thoughts (and other age-old writing cliches).
Also, writing doesn’t keep a schedule. It’s like I can’t run a 9-5 on this. Sometimes it’s more like a 2am to 7pm. Or a very solid half-hour in the middle of dinner. Writing doesn’t care when the boyfriend gets home from work or what time I told everyone I’d meet them at the bar. Those commitments are how you miss writing.
I know it might sound crazy, but I think socialization has become a luxury I just can’t afford much of anymore. Or maybe isolation is the luxury and I’m too consumed by it to currently look back?