When I am writing, and only then, this is not so. When words, and images, and ideas begin to envelope my every thought, there is no room for anyone else within the oh so jealously protective shroud.
And, it is sometimes tempting to think that only another writer would understand this enthralling isolation. Only they know the how it feels to be ensconced in the machinery of the writer's mind.
There is, of course, the daydreamer, and the artist pondering a work in progress, but what of the mechanic, the zookeeper, or the teacher grading papers? Doesn't everyone own some version of this ... ?
Still, it seems a curious thing to be, on the one hand, in want of ongoing human companionship, and on the other, unavailable for coherent converse with anyone outside of my own writersphere.
I had an opportunity, once, to watch as my astrological chart was calculated and drawn by a friend of a friend, who simply said, "I'd like to do this for you." Not caring one way or the other, I acquiesced.
She worked, as my friend and I talked on. At length, she looked at the finished chart, and then to me, and said, "You should always be around people," she adamantly cautioned me. "You need them."
This blip from my past resurrects itself for contemplation whenever I consider the duality of my existence. I don't understand astrology, nor am I drawn to such readings, thus it seemed an prescription.
And yet, whenever I am not engaged in writing, I habitually seek out the company of others, because I do so like "people." Left alone, without even a scrap of and idea to write, I become quite miserable.
So, since my muse is apparently away on an extended vacation, and the ink well is looking a little low, I think I'll go walk about and see who I meet. It sure beats hanging out, alone, on a fence ... waiting ...