And if her fingers failed to comply, if what she wrote wasn’t worth typing up, who would ever know? She was alone with all the hours of her life.
With social media and smart phones, being alone with the hours of my life feels more elusive, something that isn't guaranteed unless I deliberately make it happen, hide the phone or go somewhere without reception. It's absurd and yet so necessary to remember that it's not necessity for others to know what we write or think. We are alone with our hours and art doesn't have to be about anyone else's hypothetical perception of it. To reflect on this line now, years later, was revelatory today, how long I've been thinking about the appeal of forgetting the rest of the world and making art for the sheer joy of it, alone, from this first book to the novel I just finished, about an artist off the grid entirely.
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