I'm Italy Mone, and this is The Slowdown.

There's a myth of the artist in the lonely tower, only coming out for provisions now

and again, grumpily interacting with strangers and preferring the company of bees on blades

of grass to the craftness of humanity.

I've always thought it was a foolish myth.

Most art is made in community with others, in connection with both the wider world of

nature and the wider world of humans.

The idea that art is made only in isolation makes it seem like there's an inhuman part

to the artist.

I've always pushed back against this.

However, however, however, the truth is, sometimes every part of me wants to be alone, wants

to hide, wants to turn off all the devices, close all the windows, lock all the doors and

let myself be locked up with my own thoughts.

Why is that?

Why is it that if I want to write about the world, sometimes I have to shut the world out?

Is it just our need for silence?

Does poetry need, as Wordsworth said, to be recollected in tranquility?

I think that's part of it.

We do need silence and a little peace in order to write.

As much as I dismiss ideas about the singular genius, the danger of precious individualism,

there is something to be said for a whole day alone, a free day, a blank page, the idea

of a quiet where, finally, you can hear yourself think.

...