Solitude

Writers crave solitude. The single most impossible thing to get.

I figured as I got older, as I became a more adult version of myself, I’d get more of it. Thought maybe life would line up, the planets would shift, and I’d finally sit in silence long enough to write without interruption.

Didn’t happen.

We’re hyper-connected, wired into the grid, eyes locked on blue screens. Never alone enough to feel alone. Even when we’re alone, we aren’t.

Even if you escape the city, the concrete hive of car horns and catcalls, your phone buzzes. The world sneaks in. Did your girlfriend move in? Your fiancé? Your wife? If not, which one of your roommates is butchering your creative flow?

What, country living’s too expensive? Woods too remote for good WiFi? So now you’re fucked, stuck in a city of paper-thin walls.

Through those walls:

• The couple next door banging each other senseless.

• Or worse, the husband beating the shit out of his wife.

• Real life.

Solitude is gold. Pure gold. And I don’t have any.

Figured by now I’d have silence. Wrong. Everyone only cares about writing when it’s successful. Nobody respects the work when it’s happening.

Most people are too miserable at their own jobs to leave me alone with mine.

Not that I love writing. I hate it.

Hate the characters. Hate the process. Hate how they yell at me, how they do whatever the fuck they want. Like I’m just the host, the vessel, some possessed meat-suit channeling their bullshit onto the page.

And yet… I love it.

Love knowing it wouldn’t have existed without me. Love seeing myself in them—or seeing how I’m nothing like them. Like I can learn from them.

Love. Hate. Love. Hate. The cycle spins, and solitude is the only way to get through it.

But there’s never enough of it.

Because people don’t respect writing time. They see me sit down, and suddenly, I’m available.

If I say, “I’m writing,” at least pretend to understand. Nod, fuck off, and let me work. Don’t stand there like I just said, ‘I’m doing nothing.’

And for God’s sake, don’t suggest what you think is a better use of my time.

The irony? The best use of my time is figuring out how to escape your presence.

But you can’t escape noise.

The cars outside. The couples screaming at each other. The inconsiderate asshole neighbor blasting music like he’s the only one who exists.

And it’s not just people—it’s the attitude. The smug dismissal.

Writing’s not hard work.

Writing’s not a real job.

Fuck you.

Anyone can lift a box. Anyone can file paperwork. You can tune out, plug in your AirPods, and cruise through eight hours of mindless shit.

Writing isn’t that. Writing is constant attention. Focus.

And music? Music doesn’t help me work. Music distracts the hell out of me.

If it’s bad, I hate it. If it’s good, I can’t think about anything else.

And thinking is the job.

All I want—all I need—is solitude. Silence.

That’s why there’s an office. That’s why I go in, shut the door, lock that bitch, and sit in my own world.

Let it flood in. Let the characters take over. Let the stage pull back, let them act, let me document it.

I see another universe, just off-kilter from this one.

And my job? Tell people what I see.

But that only happens if I get solitude.

And solitude?

Solitude is the most impossible thing to get.

By Jack Thomas.