Art demands the cultivation of courage, for the writing life is a solitary one. This is not to say the writer is reclusive or dislikes big parties. But the work is a path one must, eventually, go alone.
The years of company spent with great minds, both the living and the dead, the summer evenings spent in leisure reading for pleasure, the weeks one spends enduring life at breakneck speed with only a moment to jot ideas down on napkins–all this for a few hours alone so a poem, essay, or story might breathe.
trans. Carla Baricz
Sarah Crowley Chestnut
Denise K. James
Myth and Modernity:
Is There A Place For Sleeping Beauty?
What If Violence Is The Answer?