Don't Be a Lonely Cloud

Michael Archambault
July 25, 2024 | 4 min read

The romantic mythology of the hermit is deep within every creative individual. As a writer, the notion is particularly enticing — disappear from view, only to emerge months later with the next once-in-a-generation novel.

But, contrary to popular belief, the legend of the brilliant hermit is likely just that — a legend, an ideal, an archetype, a dream.

Many prolific writers thought to embody the romantic recluse, like William Wordsworth, Henry David Thoreau, and Emily Dickinson, actually defy the stereotype.

A closer study reveals that we, as writers, must live fully present in the world.

These Are Not The Hermits You're Looking For

Take popular poet William Wordsworth. His poetry is full of beautiful odes to the natural world and the thoughts that come to us in solitude. From his poem, "I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud":

I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.
...
For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.

Despite the public’s perception of Wordsworth as a “hermit,” he actually had an active social life and maintained healthy relationships with other writers.

Additionally, he remained active in political and social issues at the time and frequently traveled — aspects of life that greatly impacted his work.

Another famous poet allegedly known for her hermit lifestyle was Emily Dickinson. But Dickinson, too, was active throughout her younger years, maintaining social engagements and continually upholding connections through letter writing.

In fact, it wasn't until Dickinson's later years that she became more reclusive due to mental health issues.

Even Henry David Thoreau only lived in his remote cabin on Walden Pond for two years! In Walden, he wrote:

“I am naturally no hermit, but might possibly sit out the sturdiest frequenter of the bar-room, if my business called me thither.”

To Write, You Must First Live

Not being a writer tucked away from the world isn't enough, though. Classic writers throughout history have attested to the need to get up and live, to experience the world, before sitting down to write about it.

Lost Generation novelist Ernest Hemingway once stated,

"In order to write about life, first you must live it."

Even Thoreau, one of the most famous examples of the writer-hermit archetype, proclaimed,

"How vain it is to sit down to write when you have not stood up to live."

And Mark Twain told us to:

"Write what you know."

Twain's travels and experiences profoundly impacted him and his writing; if he were a hermit, he likely never would have gained the knowledge needed to shape stories around the complex society surrounding him — life during the American Civil War and a rapid time of industrialization and urbanization in America.

Many of the greatest writers of the past few centuries, even those commonly thought of as glorious hermits, rejected the notion that solitude would suddenly lead to great work. At least not without first living.

The Romanticism of Solitude

If the greatest hermit-writers of classic literature were no such thing, why does the romanticism of the idea persist to this day?

The idea likely began during the Romantic era, the late 18th to mid-19th centuries, when certain writers revered individualism. While Wordsworth and Thoreau were indeed among this group, their emphasis on solitude is misunderstood.

Contrary to popular belief, the great poets did not advocate for writers to forsake their friends and family, their other hobbies, their jobs, their entire lives, in pursuit of solitude. Instead, Wordsworth and Thoreau sought to underscore the value of personal time and, indeed, the natural world, as a way to foster a deeper understanding of the world at large and invite inspiration.

Modern-day media has yet to help dispel the myth. Popular films such as Capote show the titular author's isolated lifestyle. Similarly, the novel Big Sur depicts novelist and poet Jack Kerouac relocating to a secluded cabin to work through his process. But, in truth, neither author completely removed themselves from society.

The notion of the lone genius is a legend, and trying to recreate that sort of lifestyle can actually hinder creativity — not to mention mental health.

 

Building Modern Solitude 

While nobody recommends fully withdrawing from society for the sake of writing your book, it’s definitely true that modern writers contend with distraction on a level unknown to Wordsworth and his contemporaries.

Modern technology is better than ever at stealing our attention and keeping it. This means that, in healthy doses, seclusion can benefit the modern writer. Simply removing distractions can help writers concentrate better on their work and allow more significant space to explore ideas.

The good news? You don’t need to move to a cabin in the forest. You just need a Freewrite.

As writers, it's common to feel guilty when we are not writing. It's a little like always having homework. But it's important to remember that even the greats made sure to live.

So don't cancel on your friends. Don't spend every waking moment with your eyes glued to the blank page. Don't sell everything and move to Paris to channel the souls of the Lost Generation.

Live your life.

Live your life, and write about it.

 

RETURN TO "HOW TO BE CONSISTENTLY CREATIVE"

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I’ve spent years writing while secretly fearing that a single misplaced word would expose me — not just as a bad writer, but as a fraud.

My background is originally in photography, and I see it there, too. A photographer I know recently posted a before-and-after comparison of their editing from 2018 versus now, asking if we also saw changes in our own work over the years.

Naturally, we should. If our work is the same, years apart, have we really grown as artists?

So why is that the growing, the process of it, the daily grind of it, is so painful?

So why is that the growing, the process of it, the daily grind of it, is so painful?

The Haunting

Hitting “publish” on an essay or a blog always stirs up insecurity — the overthinking, the over-editing. The fear that someone will call me out for not being a real writer.

I initially hesitated to make writing part of my freelance work. My background is in photography and design. Writing was something I gravitated toward, but I had no degree to validate it. No official stamp of approval.

Like many writers, I started with zero confidence in my voice — agonizing over edits, drowning in research, second-guessing every word.

I even created a shield for myself: ghostwriting.

I even created a shield for myself: ghostwriting.

If my words weren’t my own, they couldn’t be wrong. Ghostwriting meant safety — no risk, no vulnerability, just words without ownership.

I still remember the feeling of scrolling to the bottom of an article I had written and seeing someone else’s name, their face beside words that had once been mine.

The truth is, I always wanted to write. As a kid, I imagined it. Yet, I found myself handing over my work, letting someone else own it.

I told myself it didn’t matter. It was work. Getting paid to write should be enough.

But here’s the thing: I wasn’t just playing it safe — I was slowly erasing myself. Word by word. Edit by edit. And finally, in the by-line.

I wasn’t just playing it safe — I was slowly erasing myself. Word by word. Edit by edit. And finally, in the by-line.

The Disappearing Act

This was true when I was writing under my own name, too. The more I worried about getting it right, the less I sounded like me.

I worried. I worried about how long an essay was (“people will be bored”), finding endless examples as proof of my research (“no way my own opinion is valid on its own”), the title I gave a piece (“it has to be a hook”), or editing out personal touches (“better to be safe than be seen”).

I built a guardrail around my writing, adjusting, tweaking, over-correcting. Advice meant to help only locked me in. It created a sentence rewritten to sound smarter, an opinion softened to sound safer, a paragraph reshaped to sound acceptable.

I built a guardrail around my writing, adjusting, tweaking, over-correcting.

But playing it safe makes the work dull. Writing loses its edge.

It took deliberate effort to break this habit. I’m not perfect, but here’s what I know after a year of intentionally letting my writing sound like me:

My work is clearer. It moves with my own rhythm. It’s less shaped by external influence, by fear, by the constant need to smooth it into something more polished, more likable.

But playing it safe makes the work dull. Writing loses its edge.

The Resurrection

The drive for acceptance is a slippery slope — one we don’t always realize we’re sliding down. It’s present in the small choices that pull us away from artistic integrity: checking how others did it first, tweaking our work to fit a mold, hesitating before saying what we actually mean.

And let’s be honest — this isn’t just about writing. It bleeds into everything.

It’s there when we stay silent in the face of wrongdoing, when we hold back our true way of being, when we choose work that feels “respectable,” whatever that means. It’s in every “yes” we say when we really want to say “no.”

If your self-expression is rooted in a need for acceptance, are you creating for yourself — or for others? Does your work help you explore your thoughts, your life? Does it add depth, energy, and meaning?

My work is clearer. It moves with my own rhythm. It’s less shaped by external influence, by fear, by the constant need to smooth it into something more polished, more likable.

I get it. We’re social creatures. Isolation isn’t the answer. Ignoring societal norms won’t make us better writers. Often, the most meaningful work is born from responding to or resisting those norms.

But knowing yourself well enough to recognize when acceptance is shaping your work brings clarity.

Am I doing this to be part of a community, to build connections, to learn and grow?

Or am I doing this to meet someone else’s expectations, dulling my voice just to fit in?

The Revival

Here’s what I know as I look back at my writing: I’m grateful for the years spent learning, for the times I sought acceptance with curiosity. But I’m in a different phase now.

I know who I am, and those who connect with my work reflect that back at me — in the messages they send, in the conversations we share.

I know who I am, and those who connect with my work reflect that back at me — in the messages they send, in the conversations we share.

It’s our differences that drive growth. I want to nurture these connections, to be challenged by difference, to keep writing in a way that feels like me. The me who isn’t afraid to show what I think and care about.

So, I ask you, as I ask myself now:

If no one was watching, if no one could judge, what would you write?

If no one was watching, if no one could judge, what would you write?

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