A Short Treatise on Solitude

“I find it wholesome to be alone the greater part of the time. To be in company, even with the best, is soon wearisome and dissipating. I love to be alone. I never found the companion that was so companionable as solitude.”

― Henry David Thoreau, Walden

“…being alone never felt right. sometimes it felt good, but it never felt right.”

―Charles Bukowski, Women

Just me and my stick.

I offer the preceding epigraph though both authors are ones I’m not fond of. While I made a perfect score on my English Praxis Exam on Transcendentalism, I hate the whole bloody movement. It bored me from the word “ant.” And I never quite understood the cult of Bukowski. Still, I find wisdom and introspection in the above quotes that is a fitting introduction into an inquiry into solitude, especially in the life of a writer.

I may have told this story here before but bear with me: When I was a baby, there was a 24-hour period where I screamed bloody murder. My mother tried to pacify me with food, diaper changes, toys, etc. Finally, exhausted—she was a thirty-two-year-old old-hat at this—she shut the door and left me alone. Instantly, the screaming stopped. She cracked open the door to see me playing quietly with the mobile above me, a big smile on my face. I wanted to be left alone.

As a writer, solitude is key. In an ideal situation, there is no one in the dwelling but yourself, maybe a couple of animals (cats, preferably, as they do not interrupt you to go outside), your books, something cold to imbibe, whatever instrument be your pleasure—pencil, pen, paper, computer, etc.—and, of course, the outlet for you to plug your brain that energizes you to make something out of nothing and shape it into something pleasing.

As a playwright, however, there is, in the writing stage, an intense period of solitude followed by an intense period of collaboration in the pre- and post-production phase. You thought what you had was perfect. Then, you realize the director’s right that the second act is too short, the actor is right that this or that line doesn’t quite work. Edits are made. Sometimes you want to scream because everyone else thinks the play somehow belongs to them, but is doesn’t. In the end, if you are published, you are responsible for the printed text regardless of what goes onstage. That is what will be remembered. Solitude again—this time, on a dusty shelf.

But to be frank, and to agree with Bukowski, solitude is also depressing, taxing on the brain, unsettling to the stomach, and there’s a muscle aching—the heart, of course. I have been on my own for twenty years and rarely does a night pass by that I do not clutch to an ever-growing barrage of pillows as a replacement for something that isn’t there. For that one story above about my desire for solitude as a baby, there are ten thousand nights I’ve wished for company. Not to help me write, but to prepare me for the days and weeks ahead—even surviving the night which, for a writer, can be agonizing if you write in the wee hours. One bangs one’s head against the wall; it would be nice for a calming touch.

I no longer can write overnight as I did when I was younger. My options are early mornings, late afternoons, and evenings until I can no longer stay awake. There is no guarantee that you will be ready to write during these periods which leads many to “clock in” and “clock out” as it were. Most writers record of working from morning to noon and revising or taking/making calls in the afternoon. Would that I had that freedom.

As it is, I do not. I write when I can. And alone. It is the blessing and curse of the writer’s life. In a way, I’ve gotten what I’ve always wanted (except the Pulitzer) and there is a hole waiting to be filled that often feeds the work like coal stoking a fire.

Bukowski. Alone again (naturally).