I’ve reached the point in my exile where the loneliness is hovering.

This possibly, probably, also has to do with how I’m not at the office this week either. My emails are slowing down… my life is quieting. If I didn’t see E before I left the apartment this morning, the only word uttered from my mouth today would have been a mumbled “Hi,” when I passed another writer in the kitchen here at my writing spot. The other writer was making coffee; I was putting a yogurt in the fridge; we were both probably thinking of our novels, so there wasn’t much else to say.

I’m still at my writing spot—I’ll be here all day. I’m in a loft full of writers all at their desks writing. No one talks. No one looks. No one waves. I hear clicking sometimes, typing. The door swooshes open, clacks closed. Someone sighs. I sigh.

Really, I’m a very solitary person so the loneliness shouldn’t bother me. But that’s the thing about Twitter and Facebook: you feel connected. Disconnection is something to get used to. And with my whole life unplugged as I write away toward deadline maybe it’s good to keep up a few connections now and then.

All this silence, alone with my thoughts, makes me realize something: Maybe it’s not Twitter that could kill my novel. Maybe it’s my doubts and insecurities—all along, this whole time… it’s been me.

Makes you want to log in to Twitter and distract yourself, right?

Still writing, trying not to stress about health insurance, which dropped a bomb on us yesterday, and which I’m avoiding dealing with by putting off picking up a prescription for a little longer. Writing, I’m supposed to be writing. Just ignore me, I’m writing.