This is fine. It’s really fine, in fact.
I am not, contrary to popular opinion, a people person.
I write what makes me comfortable and sometimes what makes me squirm. Or I just sit on one end of the picnic bench.
No long hot shower unless it’s spent reciting poetry. No breakfast but a scant piece of something and lots of black coffee so that my stomach rumbles, suffering just slightly. No hello to my neighbors or their children or their cats as I slam the front door and march my mission to the train station. No smiles on the sidewalk. No conversations in the second class car. Tomorrow is a writing day, which is to say my calendar is full. Meetings from dawn until dusk and then some. Tomorrow is a writing day, and even if I had a cell phone I wouldn’t answer it.