In 2004, you gave me a copy of Letters to a Young Poet. I read it and I still read it—it’s become a frequently-relied upon companion over the years. It’s so highlighted and marked up and annotated that it reminds me of a used college textbook. No matter, I love it. Here is one of my most-underlined quotes:
This most of all: ask yourself in the most silent hour of your night: must I write? Dig into yourself for a deep answer. And if this answer rings out in assent, if you meet this solemn question with a strong, simple “I must,” then build your life in accordance with this necessity; your whole life, even into its humblest and most indifferent hour, must become a sign and witness to this impulse. Then come close to Nature. Then, as if no one had ever tried before, try to say what you see and feel and love and lose...
I’ve thought a lot about this over the years. I’ve asked myself over and over again if I have what it takes to try and say what I see and feel and love and lose. There have been rare times when I think I can; there are more times when I think I cannot. So, must I write? I don’t know. But in those silent hours of the night, what is clear to me is this: Brant should write. Brant must write.
Unfortunately (for both of us), I can’t sponsor your first book. I can’t make you a writer-in-residence in my 700-square foot apartment while offering you free room and board. I can’t put a pen in your hand and then wrap my hand around yours and make something beautiful appear on the page. I can’t even tell you the story you should write. But if I could, I would, Brant. That’s how strongly I feel about this.
You must write, Brant, if for no other reason than this: I insist.
Sincerely,
SEE
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