Yesterday, as I was working on my current project, I realized how much this story is chomping at the bit to get onto the page. I felt almost stressed that I don’t know enough at this point, in order to write it. For the first time in my life, I am aware of the impatience of the creative impulse; that being mortal, and in need of dinner breaks and sleep, I am a slow learner!
Why does a writer write? Because a writer has a talent for it. Or, if not a natural talent, a passion to cultivate one. I often think of Van Gogh, whose work I have grown to love as I get older. I was never keen on it when I was young. A few years ago, there was an exhibition of his drawings (and a handful of his final paintings) at the Met. I realized he had given everything of himself to transform what was little more than a mediocre talent into a new narrative of line and colour. He sold only one painting during his life. Today, he is called the father of modern art. That stays with me, when the going gets tough.