On the Solitary Writer

 

Graphic from a Lost document:

I'd had the middle. I'd had the end. I'd had the plot, the characters, and the theme. I'd stumbled upon the math. Little of it had come to me sitting isolated in a room. Isolation is where the work gets done, it's true, but inspiration and connection don't happen there.

I'm up with the farmers today because of a dream. I'm still undecided if my unconscious mind is a savior or a prick, but the sorrow that it had inflicted upon my waking mind by showing me a happiness in dream that I'll never otherwise know had given me the beginning of something I'd been working on for some months. Still, I'm torn between "thank you" and "fuck you."

Without the joy and pain and learning nothing of meaning would have come. I've had to break apart every truth and every lie of an existence filled to brimming with people and places. Writers live to write, but the living has to come first.

Stop typing, fingers. Quiet now, subconscious. Time for a nap.

Goodnight, Moon.

Eternity of a Moment, Giorgio de Chirico