writing is dreaming

Yesterday I was sitting on BART and while some mad woman was raving in the background about Satan and premarital sex (oh, the joys of public transport), I tried to read more from the TLS and hit upon Michael Greenberg's piece who was writing about the American novelist Thomas Berger. While reading Berger's letters he comments that Berger's urge to write came out of some biological need: "If he had enough money, he would happily concoct stories without bothering to publish them. His central aim is always to be immersed in 'a new episode in the life of the imagination,' to 'vanish from actuality.'" Green berg then goes on to say that he can't relate: "I find the effort of writing to be unappealing, for the most part, and feel rewarded only when I have put my work behind me."

I am in Berger's camp, however, and it reminded me of Hamilton Basso-- whose biography I wrote (Louisiana State University Press, 1999). Basso became most depressed when a novel was done and seemed most unhappy, to the point of being physically sick, when he found himself in limbo, between novels. I think it is because writing, or any art expression for that matter, takes us to another and higher plane where life has become the dream.