It’s time to write again, and that can only mean one thing; I must abscond to the corner of my closet. I’m not fleeing the task of writing; I’m fleeing people. In a family of eight (plus two dogs) in the home, I’m a mere syllable or two from distraction.
Writing is necessarily a lonely pursuit, which explains its popularity among introverts. It’s usually not the pastime of social dynamos; that’s fine with me, though. My needlepoint chair, an old gate-leg table, and the spines of too many books are all the company I need when I’m processing thoughts. Surrounded by words and sequestered from voices, I can wander my mind in peace; and eventually, the path out begins to emerge.
Unfortunately, as the world gets noisier—and as I get older— the more I crave time in my closet hideout. Part office, part bunker, it’s a productive and protective retreat, a corner of sanity and inspiration. Our home has an actual office full of my favorite furnishings and art, but it’s here in my quiet closet that art comes to life.
I remember my teenage days, when I was happy to spend late nights in my room writing. I poured all my angst into a spiral notebook of long letters addressed to a future husband — a mythical and flawless human I’d somehow ginned up in my mind. The long-winded epistles never got a response, but the imaginary listening ear made a tireless, if nonexistent, audience for my writing.
Now that I’ve reached midlife, the introverted angst of adolescence has largely disappeared—plus, my real husband is a much warmer audience for my musings. I’m finally comfortable in my skin; I’m more comfortable with other people and their skin, too. Each of us eventually finds that we are wired with stubborn circuitry that is energized either with people or away from people, and I just happen to fall into the latter category.
On the downside, indulging the life of the mind brings a certain feeling of alienation, felt more acutely when out in the social landscape; maybe it’s the rust of too much time alone. People at cocktail gatherings, on sidelines at my kids’ games, or in a stadium of high school football fans—all stand as a line of tanks, an imposing and impenetrable wall of faces. On my worst days, their free-flowing and peppy conversation is a foreign language to me; on my good days, it’s an uncomfortable but rewarding slice of life, a reminder of how to be a human.
To my slight shame, I’ve avoided more events than I can count—socials, team parties, dinners, parent meetings, you name it. The thought of walking into any of these crowds, with the awkward search for the first few words, is often enough to keep me at home. I don’t miss out on events that are required or truly meaningful, of course; and I enjoy being part of my children’s scenery. Nonetheless, many invitations end up on the chopping block, victims of already-drained social reserves.
