I hate January. I hate being cold. I can never work properly when I’m cold.
I write best when I’m warm, and happy and relaxed. There is a school of thought that says great art is best produced in an atmosphere of suffering, but personally, I think it’s an excuse not to pay artistic types very much – or at all. ‘Yes, I know you’re hungry and cold, but think how much better your art will be! You’ll thank me when you write your masterpiece’
I’m not the only writer who feels like this, I know. I’ve had discussions with those who say they write best in comfort and security. Unhappily, though, the very life of a writer, with its uncertain future and insecure income, is the total opposite to this.
Isn’t it ironic that the conditions that produce good writing are the very conditions writing for a living rarely produces?
Sent from my iPad