I took a short road trip upstate this weekend with some of my closest friends. As the city skyline disappeared behind us, I felt my shoulders soften. I let my mind wander. I asked @felicityasargent to share a story about an experience that changed her life. She described how J.D. Salinger, the famously reclusive author, had shaped her idea of what it meant to be a writer. In her mind, writers should be a little strange. I agreed; I’ve always believed writers should be serious people who spend most of their time in solitude. As a person who comes alive in the presence of others, I’ve always felt my extroverted tendencies and general effusiveness kept me from being a “real writer” in some way, and it became a small source of shame. I admire people who can cut themselves off from the world. Being alone creates the space to settle into your skin, to search your mind and observe what comes up. It shelters you from feedback, allowing you to shape your ideas without the constraints of an audience. It gives you time to tend to your inner world and focus intently on the work. The rest of the car ride we plotted how we might carve out more solo time, perhaps even write a screenplay. Then we arrived at our destination and spent exactly zero time alone for 72+ hours. Instead, we laughed and we ate too much and we danced; we shared secrets and sang loudly late into the night. Disconnecting is a crucial part of the creative process, but so is living.