Literature is like a breathtaking bird whose claws know no pity: they cross the oceans, tear up the sky with passion. Writing becomes into an immolation: one is completely exposed, at the expense of those unbelievable claws, yet plausible ones. It is a mistake to think that writing will arrive to any port without the ship of reading, and it is imperative to understand that one not only needs to drink water, but also to eat bread. But we do not only feed from bread, we suffer from deep shortage: literature is the golden nourishment.
Recently, I had the pleasure to write a novel, that remains unpublished. During the creative process, which is sacred, I had emptiness lagoons, and terror appeared in my thoughts: I was terrified to think I wouldn’t know how to continue the story. The famouse “writer’s block” emerged; but I have never been fond of that concept, because I believe most people use it to justify their idleness. However, it was happening to me, and desperation began to pose in my nights. It was Günter Grass’s words that brought me peace: after writing a book, a period of drought comes, and it is better to fill the subsequent months with another activity; in the case of the remarkable german writer, he did engraving; soon after the literary flame lit up again, and he could start another project. He used to assert in a interview, that it is possible to keep on writing without a period of resting, and in fact many writers did, but ended up writing irrelevant books. I calmed down. Days later, I found in my night dreams an endless fountain of creativity, and could continue my story.
Once, I read that to verify the quality of our writing, it is necessary to ask ourselves: am I writing a book I’d like to read? If we get bored reading our own manuscript, then we should reconsider the project. When I read my novel once it was finished, I couldn’t help getting emotional and even started to cry; I passed the test, because it was the kind of book I would buy to devour.
Virginia Woolf wrote about the faith in oneself. When we are unknown writers, but the literary flame inside is lit and resounds like the barbarian howl, how can we be sure of the quality of our writing? There, in solitude, in darkness, in absolute blindness, there’s hope, there’s light, where blind faith in literature dominates, where we can find happiness.
The act of writing is not only an action, it goes beyond movement, because a series of metaphysical factors converge, of strange and supernatural processes. Literature is not part of life, life is part of literature.