The Solitary Tea Drinker

A discussion in the comments section of our Great Tea Debacle page of Official Announcements reminded me of how solitary writing can be, especially to those of us who might not have a black book filled with friends and acquaintances.

Many of us, not just writers, have our lives compartmentalized - in that, we have our Work Selves, our Home Selves, and probably one or two Hobby Selves and sometimes never the twain shall meet. We probably don't socialize much with our coworkers, aside from the usual office BBQ or Holiday Party. Maybe our hobbies involve us with other people, and that's great, but we're less likely to include those folks in our every day business.

More often than not - though there are exceptions - many of us keep our Writerly Selves secret from friends and family. I talk about writing with my one sister, naturally, but never mention a word of it to my mother, stepfather, other sister or nieces/nephew. None of my friends know, and not a single person I work with has a clue I'm a writer.

Writing itself - the development of ideas, plots, characters - is all done inside our own heads, and there's nothing more personal or private than our own thoughts. That's why, if you locked up a writer in a room with no pen, paper, pencil or typewriter, we could still happily entertain ourselves for years and years, working on our novels inside our own heads.

I've said before, that writing is an almost ethereal blending of two polar opposites. It's something very personal, that holds deep meaning to each of us - something that's done in a very private manner from inside our minds to quietly appear on paper, shown to precious few if any until completion - then it's offered to complete strangers in the hopes that masses of the general public will read it for generations to come.

It's true of all the arts, really, except people can usually tell you're a painter, or see you sculpting before it's done, or even hear you play that piano before you perform the concert.

Sometimes I think I'll explode if I can't share when an awesome plot idea suddenly fills my mind - especially when the solution to a situation I'd been struggling with bursts into my head with such clarity and genius, I'm dying to see it come out. But I don't. Mostly it's because something like that is too detailed and convoluted to share with someone without literally boring them to death with detail, and also my sister - who is my reader - doesn't like spoilers.

November is going to be a very solitary month.

It could be a very lonely 30 days.

You're going to be writing your little fingers off, desperate to beat Pete the Chest Thumper, Lori the Wise and Determined, and Kristine the Energizer Bunny.

What about your friends? Your family? With Thanksgiving coming up, aren't you going to want to spend time with them? You've got that big meal to plan, and Grandma is going to want to give you tips on baking those pies.

And do you remember where you put Aunt Edna's lace tablecloth?

Then there's Christmas. You realize, as of November 1st, it's only 54 shopping days away?

Writing can be such a solitary undertaking. No one's going to fault you if you find yourself staring wistfully at those holiday decorations in that box in the basement. If your spouse needs a cuddle - if little Jr. has a rough time at school - if the leaves are piling up in your yard, making you the scorn of the block . . .

There is no shame in mailing the Tea. History will remember you.