The lonely writer is one of literature’s most persistent figures. We know the image well — the solitary figure at a desk, the lamp burning late, the world outside continuing without them. It carries a certain romance, and like most romantic images, it contains just enough truth to obscure something more complicated.
Writing is solitary work. That much is simply true. The actual act of writing — the construction of sentences, the working out of an argument, the finding of the right word — cannot be done in committee. It requires a quality of attention that other people interrupt, and most writers, if they are honest, guard their working solitude carefully. This is not antisocial behaviour. It is a professional requirement.
Continue reading “The Loneliness of the Working Writer”