Tag: writing

Creative work essentially depends on two things: (1) the ability to stimulate, allow and grasp new ideas and (2) the ability to make the most of them. In the first case, we briefly have intellectual effort and attention, qualities that, even if unintentionally, are incited by the simple desire to create. In the second case, there is something more costly, and perhaps the biggest difference between the fruitful artist and the unfruitful one lies precisely in this: in the ability to put their ideas into practice, not letting them get lost and go as naturally as they came. This ability is simply the ability to act. From this it can be seen that creative work, in order to be effective, requires not only ideas, conceiving them and capturing them—something that can be done effortlessly—but it also requires a state of mind that can be summed up in a permanent readiness for action.

Undoubtedly, the best solution to overcome the very painful work of revision is that of Fernando Pessoa: never revise anything, and never set the task of giving a definitive form to what one has written. So obvious, so evident… and yet it seems the most foolish of decisions. If every profession has its hardships, some of which can only be endured in the long term by those who have the vocation to exercise it, perhaps none is more frequent for the writer than to come across a bad piece of work. Unlike other professions, in which the results and effectiveness of the work are easily measurable, and therefore it is easier to perceive an evolution in technique and the positive effects of experience, the work of the writer seems always fated to be seen as unsatisfactory by his own lenses, something that becomes violently evident in the revision process. Revising long texts, one learns that the most elementary errors in writing are invincible because, among other various reasons, attention never remains constant over a long period. And so, for his psychological satisfaction, it is best for the writer never to revise; otherwise, he will be forced to regularly take very hard lessons.

It is true that, despite all the inherent affliction of writing, organizing thought, shaping it into words, varying forms, testing new possibilities and dressing it differently with each new piece, has its pleasures. Unpretentiously, it is possible to enjoy and take a liking to the process, without which one does not get far in letters. The unfortunate thing is that literature is not limited to these moments when thought seems like inert matter and the artist’s job is simply to conform it, as if, by doing so, the artist does not bind himself to it in such a way that expression always appears imperfect and always represents a painful separation.

A great writer does not write for his generation and must accept it. It will be more difficult to do so the more he loses the sense of his own greatness or, rather, the greatness of his own mission. Literary activity, the desire to be part of literature, must be seen primarily as a recognition of the value and power of letters. To manifest in this way, and not in any other, implies meditation and choice. Why literature? Reflection will soon point out the obvious: the writer is someone transformed by it, and he writes because the objects of his admiration have done so.