The writing stamina is so elusive. If a writing space is welcoming and gives a warm vibe, you can write for a long time there. Otherwise it’s a drag. The quest for prolific achievement is not an easy one. You got to keep moving. The gaze of the world brings its own heavy pressure.
A good writer has strong and reliable shoulders. Literary shoulders. And honesty is admitting that he himself stands and builds on the shoulders of giants.
I once thought that I would be a giant myself. It’s a noble endeavor. I shouldn’t make claims about a noble endeavor because that’s distracting and a way to lose energy. It makes the sacred, profane. If I have to be a giant, I must keep at my work head down on the page and fingers on the keyboard. Put a tape on my mouth so I don’t make a noise either!
I know my good friends read my short-pieces. They show love and appreciation to me. I am happy for the joy it brings to both parties – the reader and the writer.
If I were inspired by the impulse to have a lover, or the impulse to have a blessed child – I would’ve been prolific by now!
Then what am I inspired by? Higher human needs of self actualization? Russian novels? Readers of Russian novelist giants are not inspired per se. Nobody reads those novels as guides to self actualization. People read them to get a better sense of how not to live in a mess. Dostoevsky’s Notes from Underground is a classical guide to creating a messy life. So its readers are taking inspiration from opposite elements – to win through removal.
Some die for strength and honor. Some die for mother homeland. Some die for religion. Some die for leaders and great causes. Why do writers die? A writer is an elusive entity. You are nothing yourself yet your writing is all. Not to say nothing is a bad thing, spirituality preaching nothingness is actually a worthy goal: because it is the identity found when nothingness embraced.
Thus I strive for nothingness as a writer.
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