Cocoon

I broke out of the cocoon this week and went to some parties, and it wasn't half bad!  I don't know why it was so surprising.  There are a lot of uber cool and interesting people here, and furthermore, I used to enjoy going to parties, but I've been experiencing an intense period of introversion.  Perhaps it's the novel thing, a gestation of sorts.  On one hand, it's like reading a really great book that you can't put down--the real world is such an unwelcome intrusion.  On the other hand, it's not quite that effortless (Don R. says that writing poems should feel effortless, and I've experienced that many times--perhaps I just don't have enough practice at novel writing.  Not perhaps, certainly.) and I think I'm afraid to do anything that will break my concentration. I feel like if I stop thinking about the novel it will disappear.  I'm afraid to look away for a moment, and I know fear is not a good state in which to write, so I have to change that mentality asap.  

And the world in a book or the worlds we create when we write are sometimes so much cleaner, so much more homogeneous and so much easier to deal with.

Anyhow, I've always fought against introversion, because it seems unhealthy and wrong, as opposed to extroversion which tends to make things happen and its owners popular, rich and famous.  But right now I'm giving in to it.  Especially tonight it feels incredibly luxurious:  it's cold and snowing out, I rented Stardust and made cookies, and the five of us will snuggle up on the couch in this most privileged and lucky moment.