Post by account_disabled on Dec 26, 2023 21:35:26 GMT -6
The search is for refuge, for an isolated, comfortable place in which to sit and reflect and let creative energy flow, producing texts, rivers of words, interconnected periods of sentences. The characteristics are silence and tranquility. You can't write in a noisy and crowded environment. Distractions would occur every second, interrupting creative flow and concentration. Your own room, isolated from the rest of the house, or the office, are environments in which comfort and silence coexist in the right doses. More the house, perhaps, where we can afford greater isolation by inhibiting any communication with the outside to remain alone with ourselves and our ideas.
In fact, I write in my room, alone, the external noises muffled by the closed windows or let in to break the too much silence. If someone comes in, I stop, the flow stops, the energy flows out, the engine that drives my creative process shuts down and then needs to be restarted. Writing for me is complete isolation, I don't have to have any other movements around me except those necessary for me to write. How many of you recognize yourself in this picture? No one answered, but I heard voices shouting and a grea Special Data commotion coming from the bridge. I staggered out of my cabin – the sea must have risen quite a bit – and went up on deck. I will never forget what I saw. We were in the Indian Ocean, within sight of Rakata Island and the Krakatau volcano, when I went down to the cabin to start writing. Now I could see clearly what had caused the explosion.
An eruption never seen before. Krakatau seemed to have become the mouth of hell. The Sea Meteor was pitching terribly, my men were down and some were injured. The sky was turning the color of tar and, even from afar, I could distinguish the red of the lava and the clouds of ash rising in a gigantic black column.That's when he understands. He has already gone back many times in his life, back to write unread stories that would pile up on top of each other without generating readers. But what is a story if it doesn't have a reader? It is a silent reality imprisoned in unconsciousness. He doesn't even notice it. The legs move on their own and you see yourself flying over the unknown void. Fear grips him for a moment, just a moment, until his feet hit the ground on the other side.
In fact, I write in my room, alone, the external noises muffled by the closed windows or let in to break the too much silence. If someone comes in, I stop, the flow stops, the energy flows out, the engine that drives my creative process shuts down and then needs to be restarted. Writing for me is complete isolation, I don't have to have any other movements around me except those necessary for me to write. How many of you recognize yourself in this picture? No one answered, but I heard voices shouting and a grea Special Data commotion coming from the bridge. I staggered out of my cabin – the sea must have risen quite a bit – and went up on deck. I will never forget what I saw. We were in the Indian Ocean, within sight of Rakata Island and the Krakatau volcano, when I went down to the cabin to start writing. Now I could see clearly what had caused the explosion.
An eruption never seen before. Krakatau seemed to have become the mouth of hell. The Sea Meteor was pitching terribly, my men were down and some were injured. The sky was turning the color of tar and, even from afar, I could distinguish the red of the lava and the clouds of ash rising in a gigantic black column.That's when he understands. He has already gone back many times in his life, back to write unread stories that would pile up on top of each other without generating readers. But what is a story if it doesn't have a reader? It is a silent reality imprisoned in unconsciousness. He doesn't even notice it. The legs move on their own and you see yourself flying over the unknown void. Fear grips him for a moment, just a moment, until his feet hit the ground on the other side.