I just read a post on Shrinking Violet Promotions: Dispelling Ten Myths About Introverts and it resonated deeply. It said, “Introversion is simply the need to recharge in solitude”. Please pardon me while I squeal in recognition: “yes, Yes, YES!” That is it. That is me.
I loved the myths they listed. I’m definitely not shy. I’m not weak. I may be socially awkward and oblivious to some social niceties, but that has nothing to do with being introverted and everything to do with the man who fathered me (you know who you are, Dad). I am and I'm not a lot of things, but I can say with confidence that if I were to par-boil my essence to one word it would be “introvert”.
Solitude isn’t something I want. It is something I need. Not just to write--or to weasel my way out of responsibilities--I simply can't connect with myself without it. I don’t think well on my feet. I can’t get to the roots of problems--my own or anyone else's--by talking them out. I have to work things out or, rather, write things out, in solitude. And solitude is as rare as wombat-testicles in my world. I have two little boys--I’m never alone. And that’s the crux of a current difficulty. I don’t want to be away from them, but recharging in their presence—in anyone’s presence, really—just doesn’t get down deep enough to do the job. And that’s a real pain-in-my-ass.
I’ve managed to work around the “rules of writing" to finish a novel. I can’t write every day. I can’t even always write every other day. I plug along when I can, where I can—and praise all that is good and holy that my kids occasionally attend preschool (when they're not sick, as they are now--or on spring break, as they are next week). I'm figuring out how to make writing mesh with parenting—even when the schedule isn’t exactly optimal. But I can’t seem to flip my solitude switch to “none required” no matter how I might like to. It’s my struggle as a parent, as a wife, and as a writer.
Being an introvert isn’t a bad thing, but it can certainly be a tough thing. For me, anyway.
I loved the myths they listed. I’m definitely not shy. I’m not weak. I may be socially awkward and oblivious to some social niceties, but that has nothing to do with being introverted and everything to do with the man who fathered me (you know who you are, Dad). I am and I'm not a lot of things, but I can say with confidence that if I were to par-boil my essence to one word it would be “introvert”.
Solitude isn’t something I want. It is something I need. Not just to write--or to weasel my way out of responsibilities--I simply can't connect with myself without it. I don’t think well on my feet. I can’t get to the roots of problems--my own or anyone else's--by talking them out. I have to work things out or, rather, write things out, in solitude. And solitude is as rare as wombat-testicles in my world. I have two little boys--I’m never alone. And that’s the crux of a current difficulty. I don’t want to be away from them, but recharging in their presence—in anyone’s presence, really—just doesn’t get down deep enough to do the job. And that’s a real pain-in-my-ass.
I’ve managed to work around the “rules of writing" to finish a novel. I can’t write every day. I can’t even always write every other day. I plug along when I can, where I can—and praise all that is good and holy that my kids occasionally attend preschool (when they're not sick, as they are now--or on spring break, as they are next week). I'm figuring out how to make writing mesh with parenting—even when the schedule isn’t exactly optimal. But I can’t seem to flip my solitude switch to “none required” no matter how I might like to. It’s my struggle as a parent, as a wife, and as a writer.
Being an introvert isn’t a bad thing, but it can certainly be a tough thing. For me, anyway.
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