Looking around at the crowd gathered for my book-signing at a megastore in the Champs-Elysees, I thought:how many of these people will have had the same experiences that I have described in my books?
Very few. Perhaps one or two. Even so, most of them would identify with what was in them.
Writing is one of the most solitary activities in the world. Once every two years, I sit down in front of the computer, gaze out on the unknown sea of my soul, and see a few islands-ideas that have developed and which are ripe to be explored. Then I climb into my boat - called The Word - and set out for the nearest island.On the way I meet strong currents, winds and storms, but I keep rowing, exhausted, knowing that I have drifted away from my chosen course and that the island I was trying to reach is no longer on my horizon.
I can’t turn back, though, I have to continue somehow or else I’ll be lost in the middle of the ocean; at that point, a series of terrifying scenarios flash through my mind, such as spending the rest of my life talking about past successes, or bitterly criticising new writers, simply because I no longer have the courage to publish new books. Wasn’t my dream to be a writer? Then I must continue creating sentences, paragraphs, chapters, and go on writing until I die, and not allow myself to get caught in such traps as success or failure. Otherwise, what meaning does my life have? Being able to buy an old mill in the South of France and tending my garden? Giving lectures instead, because it’s easier to talk than to write? Withdrawing from the world in a calculated, mysterious way, in order to create a legend that will deprive me of many pleasures?
Shaken by these alarming thoughts, I find a strength and a courage I didn’t know I had: they help me to venture into an unknown part of my soul. I let myself be swept along by the current and finally anchor my boat at the island I was being carried towards. I spend days and nights describing what I see, wondering why I’m doing this, telling myself that it’s really not worth the pain and effort, that I don’t need to prove anything to anyone, that I’ve got what I wanted and far more than I ever dreamed of having.
I notice that I go through the same process as I did when writing my first book: I wake up at nine o’clock in the morning, ready to sit down at my computer immediately after breakfast; then I read the newspapers, go for a walk, visit the nearest bar for a chat, come home, look at the computer, discover that I need to make several phone calls, look at the computer again, by which time lunch is ready , and I sit eating and thinking that I really ought to have started writing at eleven o’clock, but that now I need a nap; I wake at five in the afternoon, finally turn on the computer , go to check my e-mails, then remember that I’ve destroyed my internet connection; I could go to a place ten minutes away where I can get on-line, but couldn’t I, just to free my conscience from these feelings of guilt, couldn’t I at least write for half and hour?
I begin out of a feeling of duty, but suddenly "the thing" takes hold of me and I can’t stop. The maid calls me for supper and I ask her not ot interrupt me; an hour later, she calls me again; I’m hungry, but I must write just one more line, one more sentence, one more page. By the time I sit down at the table, the food is cold, I gobble it down and go back to the computer - I am no longer in control
of where I place my feet, the island is being revealed to me, I am being propelled along its paths, finding things I have never even thought or dreamed of. I drink a cup of coffee, and another, and at two o’clock in the morning I finally stop writing because my eyes are tired.
I go to bed, spend another hour making notes of things to use in the next paragraph and which always prove completely useless - they serve only to empty my mind so that sleep can come. I promise myself that the next morning, I’ll start at eleven o’clock prompt. And the following day, the same thing happens - the walk, the conversations, lunch, a nap, the feelings of guilt, then irritation at myself for destroying the internet connection, until, at last, I make myself sit down and write the first page…
When I wrote The Zahir, the main character says exactly the same thing: writing is getting lost at sea. Its discovering your own untold story and trying to share it with others. Its realising, when you show it to people you have never seen, what is in your own soul. In the book, a famours writier on spiritual matters, who believes he has everything, loses the thing that is most precious to him:love. I have always wondered what would happen to a man if he had no one to dream about, and now I am answering that question for myself. 
When I used to read biographies of writers, I always thought that when they said: "The book writes itself, the writer is just the typist", they were simply trying to make their profession seem more interesting. I know now that this is absolutely true, no one knows why the current took them to that particular island and not to the one they wanted to reach. Then the obsessive re-drafting and editing begins, and when I can no longer bear to re-read the same words one more tiem, I send it to my publisher, where it is edited again, and then published.
And it is a constant source of surprise to me to discover that other people were also in search of that very island and that they find it in my book. One person tells another person about it, they mysterious chain grows, and what the writier thought of as a solitary exercise becomes a bridge, a boad, a means by which souls can travel and communicate.
From then on, I am no longer the man lost in the storm: I find myself through my readers, I understant what I wrote when I see that others understand it too, but never before. On a few rare occasions, like the one that is about to take place, I manage to look those people in the eye and then I understand that my soul is not alone.
Once I heard an interviewer ask Paul McCartney: "Could you sum up the Beatles’ message in one sentence?" Tired of hearing the same question myself, I assumed McCartney would give some ironic response, after all, given the complexity of human beings, how can anyone possibly sum up a whole body of work in a few words?
But Paul said: "Yes, I can." And he went on: "All you need is love. Do you want me to say more?"
No, said the interviewer, he didn’t. There was nothing more to be said. The Zahir could be summed up in the same way.
www.warriorofthelight.com Copyright @ 2005 by Paulo Coelho
