This morning I am feeling the isolation. I'm also confused because I don't know whether I should feel sad or if it is acceptable. To me, writing is exciting but also weighty. It's the warmth of sun on my face as well as the dark outline of a thunderhead off in the distance. This is what I want to do... But I feel the pressure of it, the frustration from wasted moments while pursuing other things. Or, on the other hand, there is the sadness from looking family in the face and saying, "It's been a long time. What have you been up to?" Then there's the agonizing decision of spending an extra hour or two to write in the evening or turning in early because I know I will end up at a birth sooner or later. Even taking the time to post on this blog seems foolish, a wasting of words, when I should be concentrating on my other works in progress. What's the payoff to hiding myself away in order to THINK, or sitting alone in a cafe with earbuds and a keyboard (besides the obvious--people-watching and caffeine!).
Balance. Reality. What to do, what to do.
I read somewhere that writers shouldn't write in order to be read, to which I agree to a point. But, really, I can't figure out why someone would spend hour upon hour building a story unless they planned to share it, at some point. All of this has to be worth it--has to reconnect you to the world in some fashion, or the world slips from your grasp.
It feels egotistical to say, but I need a writing village. Who's in?