Recently (at the time of writing this that equals to about fifteen minutes earlier), I was having a conversation with Milli Thornton about writing, birthday lunches and how they should be negotiable, introverts ruling the world and more oases of peace and quiet.
(Yes, I have awesome friends whom I can discuss world domination with.)
I ended the comment-conversation saying that extroverts probably shouldn’t see us plotting that openly. After saying that, I associated non-writers, extroverts with The Others. I then associated writers, introverts with the passengers on board Oceanic flight 815. And then, I associated the Island to an oasis of peace and quiet for writers; which non-writers are inhabiting.
(Yes, that is how my mind usually works. And then some.)
The way I see it now, with all of this running laps in my brain:
writers are like the passengers. We crash on non-writer’s islands, build shelters, store thoughts and ideas on neatly stacked shelves, burn the fuselage with the dead bodies of the past weighing us down. We get inspired on quiet spots on the beach in the sun or under a palm tree’s shade and start living. We start writing.
The Others are mysterious, secretive sometimes, and are seemingly easy puzzles to solve. However, they are so much more complex. They seem to know at all times exactly which buttons to push on us writers. They are difficult to track, they conceal themselves quite effectively and will show up out of nowhere to disarm writers of their thoughts and dexterity. Their exact motives remain unclear.
There will always be Others around us. But we’ve got to do our thing, type our own kind of stories, write our own special views, even if nobody else reads along.
(Yes, that last line is a play on the song from Lost.)