We writers live pretty solitary lives.
The upside is that we rarely have to put on actual pants (as defined by zippers & buttons rather than elastic & drawstrings). We also get to spend a lot of time having imaginary conversations with fictional people, which is awesome, because *revisions*. I’ve heard there are people who can convey their thoughts to other humans in complete sentences in real time, but I am not one of them. I’m a word salad girl all the way, so there’s something deeply satisfying about polishing dialogue until it’s a witty, charming rat-a-tat-tat exchange that actually makes sense.
It’s lonely. And (true story) you can get so good at lonely that you sometimes forget you *are* lonely, so you stay there until you get so weird that lonely is your only option.
This sounds grim, I know, but stay with me. There’s a solution.
Writer friends totally get it. They know where you are because they live there, too. They speak your language. They reach into the black hole of your alone time & drag you into the sun. Mostly they do it via the internet (nobody can text/tweet/instagram/FB/whathaveyou like writers) but sometimes…occasionally…they arrive IN PERSON.
And then the world is good and perfect and light and you talk non-stop until your husbands retreat to some high-profile sporting event so they can sit silently side-by-side, grunting at the field, drinking beer & avoiding both eye contact and verbal interaction. Because they’ve had enough of us & the words. (So many words. ALL THE WORDS.)
So as I look down the barrel of Thanksgiving (good gravy, people, it’s next week!), I’m pausing for a moment to give thanks for my squad. Particularly for the incomparable Inara Scott, who got on a plane & braved actual snow (!) because she loves me.
And because I love her, I put on pants.
And because our husbands love us, they went to a football game.