The Hardest Piece Of Nonfiction I Ever

Do You Want To Do This Thing? Sit Down And Do It. Are You Not Writing? Keep Sitting There. Does It Not Feel Right? Keep Sitting There. Think Of Yourself As A Monk Walking The Path To Enlightenment. Think Of Yourself As A High School Senior Wanting To Be A Neurosurgeon. Is It Possible? Yes. Is There Some Shortcut? Not One I've Found. Writing Is A Miserable, Awful Business. Stay With It. It Is Better Than Anything In The World.

He Believed That Life, True Life, Was Something That Was Stored In Music. True Life Was Kept Safe In The Lines Of Tchaikovsky's Eugene Onegin While You Went Out In The World And Met The Obligations Required Of You. Certainly He Knew (though Did Not Completely Understand) That Opera Wasn't For Everyone, But For Everyone He Hoped There Was Something. The Records He Cherished, The Rare Opportunities To See A Live Performance, Those Were The Marks By Which He Gauged His Ability To Love.

There Can Be Something Cruel About People Who Have Had Good Fortune. They Equate It With Personal Goodness.

That's The Way I Work. I Get It All Plotted In My Mind, And Then I Write It Down.

If You Want To Write And Can't Figure Out How To Do It, Try This: Pick An Amount Of Time To Sit At Your Desk Every Day. Start With Twenty Minutes, Say, And Work Up As Quickly As Possible To As Much Time As You Can Spare. Do You Really Want To Write? Sit For Two Hours A Day.