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 the 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.