A friend warned me: "It can be a lonely undertaking, this writing thing...".

I recently found pure delight in the solitary study of writing; when it was again fresh and long overdue.

Not so much later, I'm starting to see and understand the inevitability and wisdom of his words; but only starting.

Is the loneliness bound in needing to be alone, wishing to be alone, or being made to feel alone? Is it an agent for good, for ill, or simply another tool; amoral and malleable? Should it be released or embraced? Is it a fuel or an abatement? A blessing or curse?

One true statement; many good questions.