Post by account_disabled on Dec 27, 2023 3:34:06 GMT
He writes in his room, in his office, in complete stasis, in the absence of movements, in full concentration, with other instruments and a more advanced language, but he writes in the same way and in the same places, albeit with different furnishings, as those friars. So nothing has changed. No evolution? In instruments and furnishings, yes. But the ways of the writing process have remained unchanged over the centuries, unshakable in their essence, immortal and untouchable. It is as if they had their own DNA, their own defined genetic code that dictates the rules of writing.
The writer acquires them at birth and follows them, unaware of them: an ancestral, instinctive force that comes to life with us and has an end with us. Every writer, therefore, without knowing it, creates an isolated world in which to take refuge to give vent to his creative process. The unconscious creation of the refuge, because it is a refuge, happens suddenly, at the very moment in which the need to Special Data write is felt. Writing is like taking refuge in ourselves, in our ego, to then release what we have produced, like when a woman gives birth to her child: conception takes place in a closed place, in her own refuge, to then show the whole world the fruit of his job.
The action of writing, an action understood as creation, is part of our intimacy, it is an intimate process that cannot occur in public. Is writing a form of modesty? Maybe yes, why not? There would be nothing wrong with that. The important thing is the fruit, which is then made to the public to taste. It does not matter where or when that fruit was conceived. Writing needs us and we need writing. No other third parties are required during this delicate process. It is a two-way relationship that prevents others from intruding. Are there places more suitable than others for writing? The state of "ideal" is inherent in each of us, it is as personal as writing itself. We decide whether a place is ideal for our creative process.
The writer acquires them at birth and follows them, unaware of them: an ancestral, instinctive force that comes to life with us and has an end with us. Every writer, therefore, without knowing it, creates an isolated world in which to take refuge to give vent to his creative process. The unconscious creation of the refuge, because it is a refuge, happens suddenly, at the very moment in which the need to Special Data write is felt. Writing is like taking refuge in ourselves, in our ego, to then release what we have produced, like when a woman gives birth to her child: conception takes place in a closed place, in her own refuge, to then show the whole world the fruit of his job.
The action of writing, an action understood as creation, is part of our intimacy, it is an intimate process that cannot occur in public. Is writing a form of modesty? Maybe yes, why not? There would be nothing wrong with that. The important thing is the fruit, which is then made to the public to taste. It does not matter where or when that fruit was conceived. Writing needs us and we need writing. No other third parties are required during this delicate process. It is a two-way relationship that prevents others from intruding. Are there places more suitable than others for writing? The state of "ideal" is inherent in each of us, it is as personal as writing itself. We decide whether a place is ideal for our creative process.