I have come to believe—a realization that has arrived only a blink of the eye ago in writer-years—that the greatest asset a creative person can have is friends.

I have always been, by inclination if not by conscious desire, a loner. I expect that this is the natural condition of a writer. Reflection, imagining, self-examination and the far-flung psychological journeying that are the requirements of pen-to-paper are, of necessity, solitary conditions. They are the laboratory in which experimentations happen and discoveries are made.

I won’t call that state lonely…I rarely feel lonely when I’m in the midst of the work. Mid-work is an Aspberger’s place; one cannot see beyond the self or the created world. It is only when the work winds down that the ache makes itself known. And in that absent space, a generous word, an unexpected praise, the sharing of an idea, a declaration of faith in those oft-questioned abilities becomes glorious.

One questions whether one deserves such generosity, even as one is filled with the wonder of it. One knows that one can, must, let those beloved in life know that they are cherished as such. It’s just odd when it comes back. Odd in a nice way.