making time

if i can you can

Photo by Annie Spratt on Unsplash

I’ve been completely alone for more than a week now, finishing a novel in an old converted barn on a farm near Carmarthenshire. Incidentally, it’s also near where the novel in question (a modern gothic literary thriller) is set, so it’s a writing retreat doubling as a research trip.

Complete isolation. That’s what it’s been. Just me in a heated milk shed with soft furniture frantically typing and typing for days. It’s been extreme. Narrow and deep. Like to the point where I think, I really should go outside now or I might die of rickets. Or I’ll find myself wondering, When was the last time I used my tongue for something that wasn’t eating or drinking?

It’s terrifying how much I enjoy being alone when words are flowing. There is nothing more pleasurable. I mean… sex. Yes okay. But only the soul-wrenching, urgent, celestial, heart-slit-open-on-table version. And for that, if I remember correctly, you need another person. (Do let me know if you know of a solution to this problem. I’d love to hear it.)