A Norwegian crime novelist once related writing to tennis in an interview.
Nesbo described how in sporadic moments he can perform as well as Federer or Nadal. He goes on to explain the factor distinguishing him from the all-time best lay not in differences in ideal-play but rather the level of consistency at which one can embody this shared ideal state.
He then talks about how although he, Jo Nesbo, is far from the best writer, at times he is able to write sentences -- paragraphs when lucky -- that matches or surpasses Shakespeare or Dostoevsky. He continues to describe the key to writing a novel worth reading, is to have as much of it be produced out of this ephemeral state as possible. The only difference between the best writers and the rest, is not a difference in ideal-operation, but rather the amount of time spent in that ideal.
I’m in love with the cafe. Not the bricks and metal that compose its walls, or the glass and wires that is its fixtures.
Not the pseudo wood of tabletops or the vinyl of seating.
I’m in love with the cafe. Not the glass of the windows.
Not the audio jumping from the speakers.
Not the coffee roasted local.
Not the WIFI handwritten on black chalkpaint.
Not the carbon organisms dressed immaculate, prepared to be baristas for the day.
I love the cafe for who I become within it.
In the short time within, I do the work of a future Abe. A better one. An imagined one.
If he could just export this He to elsewhere.