Let's Set The Record Straight.

And don't make eye contact.

I am an introvert. I didn't always know that about myself, because for most of my life I was told (by other people) that I was something else. It took me a stupidly long time to stop letting other people tell me what I was, or what I was supposed to be. If you are funny, or have a natural tendency towards performance - whether it's acting, music, comedy, dance, etc. - the general consensus is that you are an extrovert. You are a person who likes an audience; who loves being the center of attention. After all, why else did you get on that stage, right? You are always on.

I should now like to state, forever and always, that this assumption is uninformed, unenlightened, ignorant bullshit. 

An introvert is, at heart, a person who enjoys being alone. And who, in truth, actually needs to be alone, and fairly regularly, in order to continue functioning as a member of society. An extrovert is simply a person who enjoys being around other people, and actually gets energized by all that interaction. My wife is that kind of person; I am decidedly not. I can kill whole evenings on the patio with a little whiskey (or a lot, if I'm being honest), some music, and nobody else at all. I don't just enjoy doing this; I need to do this. When I have gone too long being around lots of people, whether professionally or socially, and I don't get the chance to sneak off by myself and just be alone for a while, I will become an absolute bastard. Ask literally ANYBODY who knows me well. If you and I are ever at a gathering and it's been a couple of hours, and for whatever reason I simply cannot get away, or there is no place for me to slink off to and recharge, then in that situation there's no need for you to scan the room looking for the biggest asshole. It will always be me.

Now that I actually understand this about myself, I'm much less of an asshole these days. (There are some, no doubt, who will violently disagree with the previous statement.) If I am on a television or commercial set and we're at lunch, I don't bother trying to explain to anyone why I prefer to eat alone.  If you understand it, then we have something in common. If you don't, what you think about me is no longer my fucking problem. (And what kind of self-centeredness must you possess to think that my not wanting to sit next to you at lunch has anything at all to do with you?) 

Though some creatives are natural extroverts (and a good deal more are just straight-up attention whores), I'd be willing to wager that there are more of them like me than of the other stripe. They, too, need to occasionally be alone, and they will get cranky (or, in my case, at least theoretically homicidal) if anyone tries to intrude on that aloneness. This may be one reason I have, in my Middle Years, become fonder of writing as a means of creative expression. Most of my career has been about collaboration, and to a person like me collaboration is wonderful AND goddam exhausting at the same time. When I write, though, it's just my thoughts and me. (Don't get me wrong. That can also be goddam exhausting. And more than a little frightening.) I find I enjoy creative solitude more and more.

Or maybe I'm just turning into Groucho Marx: Don't look now, but there's one man too many in this room - and I think it's you."

The Problem.

This is not the problem. This is a desk.

No. The problem, if I'm being completely honest, is that I seem to be unable to write on a daily (or even weekly) basis unless at least one part of my life is crashing into ruin. (AUTHOR'S NOTE: no part of my life, that I am aware of, is currently crashing into ruin. I'm merely making a point here. Not a confession.) 

I'm reminded of something I heard from a lovely singer/songwriter once, Carsie Blanton. As she was winding up her next song, she said (paraphrasing), "This next tune is a bit of a departure for me. I wrote it while in the middle of a real creative dry spell. And I was in that dry spell because, at the time, I happened to be in a healthy relationship." Thank you, Carsie, for hitting the nail on the head. Or, more precisely, for hitting my thumb, which was conveniently located on top of that nail. Look, I am not suggesting that being in a healthy relationship kills creativity. I am saying it DIRECTLY and OUT LOUD. Of course being emotionally happy kills creativity. No less an authority than Mark Twain put it out there when he said, "The secret source of humor itself is not joy, but sorrow. There is no humor in heaven." This isn't just me talking. Or even Twain. There's fucking science to back this up now. I am in a loving, emotionally stable (mostly) relationship. I enjoy my children. I have a small but robust circle of friends. And I am less prolific on the page than I have been since I got all those things. And I am far less funny.

Now I know what some of you are thinking. No worries, Lar. It's YOU. Pretty soon you'll fuck it all up, your life will go back to the shit heap, and then you'll be hitting the keys every day, dumping out your purse for the world to see, and it'll be hysterical, and we'll all laugh and be grateful we're not you. Except the thing is: I kind of LIKE the way my life is, now. I don't like it every day, to be sure. But I can say unequivocally that it's waaaayyy better than it was when I first began writing in this space, or even when I was writing the book. The idea of having to torpedo my life just to get back to that wellspring of creative misery... that choice doesn't appeal to me.

I don't know what the solution is, and I would be highly suspicious (or homicidally envious) of anyone who claims to know. I suppose, for a while at least, that writing will be a slog. For the three or four of you who will read this, fair warning: my next few posts are liable to be exceptionally ordinary.  I am in the process of getting back into a habit, and that process is often ugly. Like, getting-back-into-the-gym-and-those-sweatpants-should-be-in-a-larger-size ugly. I believe, at an intellectual level, that I can be a prolific writer AND be reasonably happy. Well, maybe not prolific. I'm in no danger of becoming the next Stephen King (mostly because I'm pretty sure ALL that guy does is write. Has he even stopped to take a dump since 1974?). Maybe it's enough to say that I believe I can be creative on the page at least fairly regularly, and that posting on this space is my weekly dose of fiber to keep things moving. (Man, I really went too far with the whole poop analogy. Apologies to Stephen King.)

So, here's to the Slog. And whatever your Slog is, just keep at it. Day drinking helps. Talk soon.

Lar