In many ways, I’m not that typical writer living a quiet life of solitude. I’m quite social. Well, I’m social at times. I have an extremely social job where I’m paid to talk and spark great discussions in my parent education classes each day. At the end, I’m often exhausted and more than happy to shut up and go back inside my head to live surrounded by the dull roar in there. I like that noise better. My characters are also easier to deal with… most of the time.
But I wonder if the tendency to live inside my head—my introversion—is what saves me from all the outward focus in my life.
As a mom I give. As a teacher and wife I give. As a friend I give, and I freely do so nearly every time.
But it can be draining after a time.
My characters in my stories drain me too, but they at least allow me to write about them fucking each other from time to time. That more than makes up for it. At the least, it fills me up in a way nothing else can
I know my sudden social retreat can be confusing for my family and friends at times. I seem so social to them, but then I withdraw. I internalize a lot of worries and rarely let people know if I need help.
I’m the caregiver.
I’m the one who offers