While I was writing my first book, I often wrote out of the angst of the moment. When I was most unsettled by life, I found a real well-spring of creative energy. It felt like a fever sometimes. I would write long-hand whole passages that ulitmately appeared in the published book almost unchanged.
When I was writing the final drafts of the book, I often tried to cultivate that highly emotional state by playing sad songs over and over as I sat at my desk. The writing, I thought, worked best when I felt emotionally raw, or even better yet when I wept.
Now, I believe that my writing is best-served when I have a tranquil mind and a tranquil life. As Flaubert says: “Be regular and orderly in your life, so that you may be violent and original in your work.”
I am hoping for some tranquility in these days, and relief from sleepless nights so all of that disorder can feed the writing. Wish me words.
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