|Along the edge of the Contoocook River 7/14/14|
CC Jean Stimmell
|What a neuron dendrite tree looks like,|
one of the vast forest of them living in my brain
But why shouldn't my work be hard? Almost everybody's work is hard. One is distracted by this notion that there is such a thing as inspiration, that it comes fast and easy. And some people are graced by that style. I'm not. So I have to work as hard as any stiff, to come up with my payload.
While it is undoubtedly true that the process takes a toll on many writers: "a lot of work and a lot of sweat" to write. But few could have it tougher than Gustave Flaubert:
"Sometimes I don't uderstand why my arms don't drop from my body with fatigue, why my brain doesn't melt away. I am leading an austere life, stripped of all external pleasure, and am sustained only by a kind of permanent frenzy, which sometimes makes me weep tears of impotence but never abates. I love my work with a love that is frantic and perverted, as an ascetic loves the hair shirt that scratches his belly. Sometimes, when I am empty, when words don't come, when I find I haven't written a single sentence after scribbling whole pages, I collapse on my couch and lie there dazed, bogged own in a swamp of despair, hating myself and blaming myself for this demented pride that makes me pant after a chimera. A quarter of an hour later, everthing has changed; my heart is pouding with joy. "**
** this Faubert quote comes from pages 31-32 of Daily Rituals: How Artists Work by Mason Currey: Alred Knopf, New York, 2013