The Religion of Solitude

Over the years, I've adjusted my definition of a 'writing space'.  This is due to a shift in the way I perceive writing.  Earlier, I considered the process of setting glyphs on a page to be writing but as I've progressed I find that more of the writing process takes place in my head, before a pen touches a page or my fingers feel the keyboard. 

So much of writing is, in fact, contemplation of writing.  Not thinking about writing is writing.  Reading is actually writing.  All of these actions are part of writing.  For these tasks, I don't need a desk or ink.  Solitude is helpful but not always essential as external suggestions, unwitting or not, can be as vital as any prior knowledge or hard won epiphanies. 

The writing space which my mind desires is more about tempo than dimensions.  In order to observe, to really see what's around me, I must first be still.  And slowness is hard won.  It requires that I deliberately jettison anything which is pushing or tugging at me; distractions and tasks which seem important but can, in fact, be thrown aside without injury or harm. 

Here's a test which you can use to find out whether you are ready for writing.  Ask yourself:

• Am I content to sit quietly without the need of a purpose?
• Am I happy for long periods to pass before a thought troubles my mind?
• Can I tolerate silence without being disturbed by the need to fill it?

If you can allow the silence, the lack of voice, to exist and not be troubled by the emptiness, then you have found the space to write.  And by writing I mean inviting some small thoughts to gather.  Notice what was always there, but invisible in the fog of activity, and capture it in your mind.  Leave it there, like a vase of flowers on a mantelpiece.  Decorate your mind with other observations and allow them to share the space in peaceful room at the back of your mind.  Then walk, breathe, live.

Writing will take place.  When you have finished writing, then you can start to rearrange shapes on a page.