My husband recommended The Kingdom of Loathing for me to play.
It’s pretty epic.
And yes, I named my character Carol Lambert. 😛
When I first learned what a recluse was during my childhood, I thought that it sounded like a great idea. Heck, I even made it my life goal.
Shortly after reaching adulthood, I discovered that I don’t actually enjoy living completely alone. I forget to eat if I don’t have someone else around to keep me grounded in reality.
So, now I have a family of my own, and it works really well for me… As long as I get the kids in bed early so I have time to myself, lol.
But lately, I’ve been feeling overexposed to people.
It’s the combination of a number of things that I don’t want to get into (don’t worry, it’s not you), but I’m worn down. I don’t want to interact with the outside world, so much as I want to retreat within myself and paint the stairs. I’ve absorbed too much energy from too many sources, and I need a mental cleanse.
I’m being literal, btw. I bought supplies to paint our wooden staircase yellow and green, and have been doing the prep work. The previous owners painted it taupe, so I’m not ruining anything. Albeit, I *am* making it weirder.
Reclusive. Retiring. Cloistered.
And you can’t bully or cajole me out of it.
The other day I was musing over how all of the creative sorts that I used to follow back in the day all dropped off the face of the planet, when it hit me: I dropped off the face of the planet, too. Talk about a blind spot, lol.
Though I didn’t have any adoring fans that I let down. There are people out there who are very good at commanding attention and getting noticed … and I am not one of them. I tend to become shy. So. Very. Shy.
Anyway, my absence from the planet is why I sit here saying, “I’m super passionate about writing,” with so few titles attached to my name.
Those lost years were essential. They added depth to my ideas that I wouldn’t have developed otherwise, and broke me out of the standard tropes. They gave me life experience.
They also left me too scattered for awhile afterwards to finish anything. I had no focus or consistency.
And I don’t like talking about it, so don’t ask.
Thankfully, in this part of my life, I’m a lot more solidly grounded, so I’m much better at writing nearly every day (I say after I took a full month off just because). That’s the part that really matters to me, but dang do I wish I was working faster sometimes.
Like, it would be so sweet if I was finishing TWO novels every year, instead of just one.
Because sometimes I feel like I have too many stories inside of me, waiting for their turn.
Fish are kind of a theme for me.