I have said it before, and I will say it again: I should have started writing this book years ago, because I have amassed far too much material. Had I written more about some of it earlier, I would not now be wanting to stuff all of it into every piece. So I was really, really ready to write, and I either did not realize it or I was too distracted by my other myriad and fragmenting duties.
Writing takes a lot of time — I have said this before, and I will say it again — and it requires recreation encircling it. One can attempt to deny this, and become frustrated and not know why, or one can accept it and plan for it.
That brings me to my point today: perhaps it is not that the students do not know how to write, or do not know how to manage time. Perhaps it is that they really do not have time to do the job in a complete way. Perhaps that is why so many of the papers I receive on time resemble rough drafts.
I think writing is a lot like tinkering and a lot like painting. My studio here in Brazil has a comfortable chair that fits the large table, an Internet connection, natural light, openable windows, enough shelves to keep all the books I need within well organized sight, and a good sea view — and nobody drops in to interrupt me. I love all of these things and evidence appears to indicate I need them.
Some people will say I am a great bourgeoise and clearly do not love my work enough, if I require so much to do it. I disagree. My evidence for this is that I have traveled over seven thousand kilometers and I am at a major tourist point, to which it will be both expensive and difficult to return, and that given decent working conditions I traveled to find I am choosing work.