Why do we have those moments when we cannot stop…writing?
When the words flow from one’s fingers as if they were one’s own blood?…
But what is this prick which pierces the skin, which creates the flow of inspiration?
I wonder if in life, if one is just too tired, if one has just so many things to do…
Do we lose the need to write?
Do we lose this need, this authorial need, sometimes so important for our personal well-being???
Sometimes I am so tired that I cannot even think about writing.
I wonder if, to become a true writer, if we are supposed to be, in some way anti-social?
I see… A huge, old mansion. Full of dark unused rooms. One window is alight in this black night. It is so tiny however, that it is but a small yellow spot, swallowed into nothingness. This yellow light, a candle just enough to create shadows in obscurity. And in this obscurity a hand is writing furiously.
Does an author, a true author, need to be bathed in solitude in order to find sufficient drive, sufficient inspiration?