I have known very few writers, but those I have known, and whom I respect,
confess at once that they have little idea where they are going when they
first set pen to paper. They have a character, perhaps two; they are in that
condition of eager discomfort which passes for inspiration; all admit radical
changes of destination once the journey has begun; one, to my certain
knowledge, spent nine months on a novel about Kashmir, then reset the whole
thing in the Scottish Highlands. I never heard of anyone making a 'skeleton',
as we were taught at school. In the breaking and remaking, in the timing,
interweaving, beginning afresh, the writer comes to discern things in his
material which were not consciously in his mind when he began. This organic
process, often leading to moments of extraordinary self-discovery, is of an
indescribable fascination. A blurred image appears; he adds a brushstroke and
another, and it is gone; but something was there, and he will not rest till he
has captured it. Sometimes the yeast within a writer outlives a book he has
written. I have heard of writers who read nothing but their own books; like
adolescents they stand before the mirror, and still cannot fathom the exact
outline of the vision before them. For the same reason, writers talk
interminably about their own books, winkling out hidden meanings,
super-imposing new ones, begging response from those around them. Of course a
writer doing this is misunderstood: he might as well try to explain a crime or
a love affair. He is also, incidentally, an unforgivable bore.#
This temptation to cover the distance between himself and the reader, to study
his image in the sight of those who do not know him, can be his undoing: he
has begun to write to please.#
A young English writer made the pertinent observation a year or two back that
the talent goes into the first draft, and the art into the drafts that follow.
For this reason also the writer, like any other artist, has no resting place,
no crowd or movement in which he may take comfort, no judgment from outside
which can replace the judgment from within. A writer makes order out of the
anarchy of his heart; he submits himself to a more ruthless discipline than
any critic dreamed of, and when he flirts with fame, he is taking time off
from living with himself, from the search for what his world contains at its
inmost point.&