I come to my talk wanting to talk about a single important component of writing, a basic component, maybe the most crucial component in writing–and that component is passion. That’s something that fuels in a most extraordinary and unexpected way the idea we come to, the words we choose, that takes us places outside of who we are. Passion.

This passion that I am thinking about is a writer’s passion. A passion that fuels in a most extraordinary and unexpected way the very ideas we come to, the words we choose that take us into the most finite corners of experience and give us the way to express that. And finally a passion that allows flow, that miraculous movement that takes us into places and moments outside of who we are.

True passion isn’t common. It never has been. Because that passion, that simple artistic passion ignites everything. It ignites the original idea for the book. It creates voice that jump-starts beginnings, keeps the thematic thread hot, which in turn, inflamed, drives character to journey and quest and goal. It sets powerfully in motion, a story that will in the end, like a wildfire, not stop, but will transcend.

Let’s begin then at the beginning of the idea itself. With the power of passion so crucial to what a writer writes, a writer’s choice of idea cannot be small potatoes. It cannot be derivative. It cannot be just okay because a writer intends to compensate with beautiful language. It cannot be just okay because a bookseller said that two people had come into her shop looking for a book on that topic. Having a mediocre idea for a book is like having low octane gas. Maybe the car will go with low octane, but it isn’t going to get to miraculous speeds on the road, and at low speeds it could well sputter along.

The act of original creation requires passion, nothing less.

I often teach writing, and my goal is to take the writer out on the farthest limb, because it is there in that place where they would only go if they felt passion in the going, that there is a chance they will discover the new idea, the new word, the new combination of words, the new moment, the new scene, the new story. It is sometimes dangerous out there, you know. You are so exposed. Limbs can break, the balance is everything, but maybe I tell them, maybe it is worth your courage.

I often ask my writers and artists when they bring in their final work what do you think? Did you go far enough? A story at its best starts in some indefinable place deep inside the artist or the author and moves outward. There’s risk in that for the artist or author.