The Zahir

I was reading "The Zahir" by Paulo Coelho and came across this amazing part. Thought would share it with you.

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 criticizing 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 toward. 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 the 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.

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, the mysterious chain grows, and what the writer thought of as a solitary

exercise becomes a bridge, a boat, 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 understand what I wrote when I see that others understand it too, but never before. On a

few rare occasions, like the one that is just about to happen, I manage to look those

people in the eye and then I understand that my soul is not alone.