As an introvert, I’ve always enjoyed spending my time alone. I was an only child, so I became used to playing with my ‘friends’ (stuffed animals) or my siblings (family pets). Concerned, my grandmother once asked, “Don’t you get bored or lonely when you sit by yourself?” I responded, “No, ma’am.”
It’s true, though. Today, if you visit my home, I have no television set and my spouse is gone most of the day. I’m happy. I’m writing. Most frustrating, though was when I once imagined most of an entire play I wished to write by hand as opposed to typing. I had to wait for a notebook and spent weeks agonizing over this play until it arrived and I could write in it.
So no. I don’t need anyone else to entertain me. I just need a muse, some time, perhaps a blank wall — and of course, my own mind, memory and imagination.
“Then I realized that I was not alone; I was in the book; I was with the characters. I was with my Self.” — Steven Pressfield, The War of Art.