Solitude

or the inherent value of being alone

“Introverts, in contrast, may have strong social skills and enjoy parties and business meetings, but after a while wish they were home in their pajamas. They prefer to devote their social energies to close friends, colleagues, and family. They listen more than they talk, think before they speak, and often feel as if they express themselves better in writing than in conversation. They tend to dislike conflict. Many have a horror of small talk, but enjoy deep discussions.”

― Susan Cain, Quiet: The Power of Introverts in a World That Can't Stop Talking

For most of my life, I had to listen to my father talk about introverted people as though they were mutants, invaluable, second-class citizens, certainly not worth his time. My mother is a super-introvert. I am introvert. I think even my more outgoing (or just more people-involved) sister is an introvert. He should have probably shut his mouth a long time ago and taken a cue from the women in his life, just for a few minutes: Listen.

I read this book, Quiet, years ago in 2012 when it first came out, and for the first time saw my value as an introvert in its pages. It propelled me to continue on my writing journey, to allow myself the time and space and quiet I needed in order to be productive in a creative flow. It helped me to see this was not selfish: it was incredibly productive. Six published books came out of that solitude, and many more not published. Not every writer needs this space, but I do. And lots of it because creative flow doesn’t just show up on cue. I can’t clear my calendar for an hour and expect a novel to pour out.

Since 2020, solitude has vanished. I try to be patient and hold out for the next chance I have to finally breathe, but for the last several years those moments are very far and few between. Having some time alone each day is no longer a part of my routine, like it had been pretty much my entire life. Now it sort of shows up like a shooting star. And when I do finally get those moments I flounder for while trying to figure out what to do with myself. I have to get reacquainted with my thoughts, and all the tiny sparks of story that have been firing off at the most inconvenient times leading up to this moment. I have to practice entering the flow again. It’s like trying to jump on a moving train. And I have to hope there are words waiting for me down the line. Most often, anymore, there are not. At least not the words I’m used to finding. Not words that carry me away into other worlds and lives and puzzles to solve. Not the words that allow me to play and tinker and polish in the hopes of making something beautiful, or at least fun, to read.

Instead I’m consistently writing here. (Hi Substack friends! I appreciate you!) I’m writing advertorials. Newspaper articles. A story for a travel magazine. A lot of ad copy. I just finished my TEFL certification, so I’ve been writing a bunch of mock English lessons. I’ve been researching a possible new path in Instructional Design, so I’ve been taking copious notes and writing mock interview scripts that show how my skills are transferable, and creating a portfolio of more mock lessons and educational materials. I’m teaching myself Articulate 360, which is a course building software program. I have an essay coming out in an anthology early spring. (more on that soon) I have two projects in the hands of folks who may or may not do something with them. The amount of information my 49-year-old brain has absorbed and spit back out in actual google docs in the last couple months is astounding. Words, words, words, words, words. There will never be a shortage. But there’s a huge chasm in my heart between skill and art.

I don’t mean all of that to sound like a complaint. I mean, yes, some of it is certainly a complaint. I miss the quiet of occasional solitude. I miss fiction. I have grown tired of hearing about my colleagues’ successes and the industry ups and downs altogether. However, I’ll also proud of the fact I’ve been able to prove to myself that I can pretty much take this skill of writing into any field at this point. Whether or not this will pay off is still in question—and still a necessary evolution. I have not been able to secure a full-time position in a well-paying, career aligned job. I’ve had some really great interviews and conversations with connected people but nothing has come to fruition yet. I try not to think they take one look at me and say: “hm…she’s not 25” and then move on to someone who is. And the pressure grows stronger by the day.

Liz Gilbert says something in her book Big Magic about how we can’t require our creativity to earn money for us. I used to subscribe completely to that idea, but lately I have many mixed feelings. On one hand, you can’t expect a book to make you rich and famous. It happens (ahem Eat, Pray, Love) but it’s not normal. But on the other hand, I know a young woman who comes from a family of money, married into money, and doesn’t have to work. So she paints. Sometimes that pisses me off, but I also totally get it! If you don’t have to worry about money—and you have a soul—you will seek beautiful things, things that fill you up, you will seek art. And for me—my creativity, my writing, is my most honed and practiced skill. I have a lot of others, of course, but writing is at the core of most of it. If I can’t leverage that to be a financial support for myself, what the fuck else do I have, Liz?

So where am I going with all of this? I don’t know. Sorry. I guess I should have a point. I just thought maybe I’m not the only skilled introvert, the only ambitious creative out there who struggles between finding the quiet time and space to do what you love while also balancing the very real need (and want!) for financial security. It’s been my plight for a very long time, only becoming all the more real and terrifying the older I get. I have no answers. I just know I’m tired of constantly being on the giving end, the hustling, the stressing, the trying, trying, trying. I’m tired having to be so serious all the time.

A good friend and I keep chanting “2025 is our year!” I have no idea if it will be. I don’t even know what that means for myself anymore. But whatever happens, I guess we just keep trying. And I will keep reminding myself that it’s okay to seek out quiet solitude because it’s the only way I’m going to get through any of this. Maybe someday other people will be more understanding of what we introverts have found: value, innovation and even (hopefully) success through quiet.