Storytelling, then, is born from our need to order everything outside ourselves. A story is like a magnet dragged through randomness, pulling the chaos of things into some kind of shape and – if we’re very lucky – some kind of sense. Every tale is an attempt to lasso a terrifying reality, tame it and bring it to heel.
Sports journalist Walter Wellesley ‘Red’ Smith was asked if turning out a daily column wasn’t a chore. “Why no” dead-panned Red, “you simply sit down at the typewriter, open your veins, and bleed.”
The artist committing himself to his calling has volunteered for hell, whether he knows it or not. He will be dining for the duration on a diet of isolation, rejection, self-doubt, despair, ridicule, contempt and humiliation.