That Elusive Book

I’ve been searching for a book.

I know what it feels like. The story is intricate, a finely-spun spider’s web. The characters are woven into the story; the narrative forms a cocoon around them, making the characters its own. The plot develops subtly, never giving away more than is required; its veil of mystery stays in place, fluttering every now and then. The emotions portrayed are intense — it has the ability to leave the reader breathless, lost for words. This opus will always stand out, always be different from the others on the shelf.

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In the Pursuit of Happiness

One thing I have realised, after a few years of writing in the hopes of creating that one masterpiece, is that happiness is detrimental to creation. Not the fleeting kind of joy we get from the small pleasures in life, but the all-consuming happiness that arises from contentment. Happiness just does not provide a fertile-enough mind in which ideas can grow. Though happiness is the final goal every person strives to reach, for an artist, the journey is more rewarding than the goal. The minute an artist gets the impression that he is happy, that he is content, he stops. Rather, his creativity takes a long pause to revel in the newly-achieved happiness and puts a full-stop to the process of generating ideas.

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