Writers tend to be introverts. All those hours spent alone with pen and paper, or typewriter, or (nowadays) electronics. One would have to be.
I confess — i’m one of them. An INFJ in Myers-Briggs terminology. As an only child, I kept myself amused much of the time. My parents never thought it was their responsibility to entertain me. I learned to do that on my own.
Reading was one way I filled the time and enjoyed various adventures without the company of others. I traveled to places real and imagined, hung out with characters braver than me, and met challenges foreign to my childhood neighborhood.
Reading triggered my imagination. The characters I read about sparked ideas for characters of my own creation. I started stories that I never finished, since creative writing courses were decades away in public schools. I even drew scenes for stories (graphic novels also came along later). When I got older, magazine and newspaper articles inspired tangential flights of fancy. “What if…?”
I have finally reached a point in my life when I can write what I want to write. Not correspondence for someone else’s signature, reports on subjects not of my choosing, or quasi-legal responses to complaints.
I get to spend as much time as I want in my own imagination. Researching, mulling, organizing, writing, and rewriting. Venturing outside only to walk the dog, visit the horse, or run quick errands (socially distancing, of course).
In other words, home alone in “quarantine.”
😉
Mary S. Potter 