Not the Recluse Writer

I am not the recluse writer, who lives in isolation from society - crafting beautiful prose from some rich internal world. I can't create the internal struggle of a teenager recognizing the phonies in the world or the coming of age realization of the cruelty of racism in small town Maycomb, Alabama.

My words are crafted in the lives of those around me - the ones I love or fail to love. The conversations of strangers overheard at busy coffee shops mumbled under masks. I am not the writer who creates worlds of plagues where doctors are good and neighbors are evil. I have not theorized about years behind bars envisioning freedom from sin or consequence. Instead, my words are found in the world around me. I'm a social writer. An extrovert with an internal dialogue: my catalyst - other people.

Often, my best writing happens with the accountability of others. A writer's group that meets for snacks and check-ins, only to spend hours in isolation within the same space - writing - to return together for brunch or vegan lunch to share what we've created or recreated in our separation. It's something about the others waiting to share, to hear, that spurs me on to write something worthy of reading. Something about knowing someone besides myself is going to read the words I've collected and judge them.

I'm not the lone writer hiding at windows, escaping the world too harsh or too kind with the stories I've crafted. I'm not the outcast exiled from my land or imprisoned for political passion. Agoraphobia is not a trait I inherited from my grandmother. No, this writer is a social butterfly, one who thrives on being surrounded by others. One who embraces the chaos of a busy airport or museum. One who people-watches to the point of distraction. One who wants to narrate each story, each person, each encounter - never with enough time to capture it all in words.