I started writing this blog at 8:23 p.m. on a Sunday night.

For me, that’s revolutionary.

In fact, the last time I did such a thing was the 12^th of never.

For as long as I can remember, I’ve put pen to paper fingers to keyboard first thing in the morning. The earlier, the better. My pithiest musings often happen around 5 a.m. — long before I’m actually awake or caffeinated.

It’s also well, well before I utter any word of any kind. Once I speak—or hear someone else speak, for that matter—it’s all over. I’m dunzo.

An author friend of mine once disclosed that all writers have that sweet spot where they are most productive. However, finding that particular timeframe is often half the battle.

Since I haven’t written anything of merit in almost a week, I decided to wordsmith at the worst possible time. I’ve been conversing all day. My belly is full. I’ve been doom-scrolling for hours. And whatever bit of creativity I may have left in me has seemingly evaporated into the ether.

Yet, I’m forging on.

That’s the introverted extrovert in me.

I’m someone who enjoys social interaction but desperately needs time alone to recharge. And I find writing in solace does the trick. It’s nearly foolproof.

The older I get, the less naturally outgoing I’ve become. At parties, I can maintain a certain level of enthusiasm for about an hour. After that my gusto, my sincerity, and my will to live often fly right out the window.

Introverted extroverts like me usually have to psyche themselves up for elaborate social settings. If you know me, you can actually watch my battery drain when I’m trapped in conversations with no end in sight. Fun fact: my willingness to engage in banter varies based on the topic and the people involved.

How bad can it get? At a fancy-schmancy formal fundraiser a month ago, I actually announced, “Hey, excuse me. I’m going to arbitrarily walk over there for no reason.”

If you mistake me for an extrovert, I’ll give you a pass, but only once. I get it—my extroverted behaviors are often on display. But just know, my need for introspection and solitude trumps everything else. And—sidebar—if you think I’m being disingenuous at parties, it’s probably because you won’t stop talking.

Now that this blog is done-ish, I feel a sense of relief and renewal. (I’ll still probably revise it a half dozen times over the next 24 hours.) So, shout-out to my co-extroverted introverts! If you feel my pain, chime in. If you can empathize, comment away. And if you’ve ever left a party after a scant 15 minutes, just know—you are my people.