Solitary muse
Posted by Dee-Rob on June 21st, 2007
Last night I figured something out that I don’t quite understand. I generally don’t write at all when M. is around. (Or anyone else for that matter, but he’s the obvious one to be around.)
I wait for him to go to bed or take a run or otherwise not be here. He doesn’t stop me or distract me. He’s happy to listen to music, watch TV, read a book, take a shit, any number of activities that don’t demand my attention. Still and all, I do all sorts of other stuff beside him but produce crappy prose.
Clearly, this entry is dedicated to his not being home yet.
I wonder if it’s my solo existence for so long. I’m accustomed to the thoughts in my head as company.
Or perhaps it’s the fantasy of a hunched over, grim typist, cigarettes and whiskey and a shotgun in the corner. Nothing makes American writing like the prospect of self-destruction and embodying an angry loner.
Of course, that fantasy suits serial killers as well as writers. Not sure if the verdict is in on me yet.
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