I don’t believe I’m the only writer in the world who’s ever wished for a bunker.
To crawl inside some dark, underground hobbit-hole, to light some candles, and – sweetest of all! – to close and firmly bar the heavy door. To sit in silence, to dream, to sketch, to sprawl, to write my ever-living brains out.
I’d have enough supplies to hole myself up for days. Finally, bereft of companionship (or procrastinating revisions), I’d emerge, blinking and lost, stumbling into the sun like a freed spelunker.
In any other profession, this might sound like a concerning desire to become a hermit and might draw the attention of mental health professionals. But that’s one of the greatest things about being a writer: We get a free social pass to do…