The Solitarian

Solitary contemplation
photo by dinobirdo.

Why is it that the stories I like writing most are of tormented, solitary souls holed up in a slummy apartment, working at some inconsequential though personally critical task? Why do they all struggle with obsessive thoughts and delusions? Why is it that I like characters who inhabit the same space but don’t know how to communicate with each other? The closest they ever come are monologs recited for the other’s benefit. My version of plot development is when the guy moves from a rocking chair to the front step. Maybe he gets up one morning and stands baffled on the edge of a river, a hand to his forehead, trying to remember if it was flowing the other direction yesterday.