In some ways it is unfortunate that the writer cannot share an ongoing creative thought process in ways other than writing. One cannot go to his neighbor and divulge or explain much about the constant halfway point he is in. He is a journalist covering his own writing process. What comes out of it will be posted as it is reported, in the story that ends when it ends.
Of course the writer views the process as intimate. A source confiding in him. A one on one relationship that cannot be opened to third parties. The context is best worked out within the privacy of secretive exchange of question and answer, posit and record.
The writer must decide what is private, what can be shared with the outside world, how to share that, realizing that the best way is, like making good wine, to let the process speak naturally, unfiltered, old school.
This is, I suppose, why writers can enjoy the company of cats. The cat speaks a language of its own, with which it may even engage you, in a way that never interferes.
Tantric Buddha Jesus does a shoulder stand and then a plow and feels the energy coursing from highest to the lowest chakra, clear pineal fluid in evidence, preparing for the intimate bodily almost erotic quality of his symbol, his powers, rising on the cross, then risen. The practice was not something that made the Gospels. The man always had a private vision of himself as a prophet, as a saint, able to find little nuggets of wisdom in just about everything. The metaphor redolent in common every day things, like tea. The deep gentle understanding, the peace arising out of everything as it is into the world, touching us as we touch it, reminding us of the dusty atomic structure that something akin to our own minds has wrought into being with perfect wisdom down to, yes, the finest structure of the feather of a bird's wing, which the bird of course carries around with appropriate pride and appreciation for its usefulness it does not ever question.
He would have cleaned his own house first, scrupulously, don't you think, balancing his chakras, realizing his foundations... Did he require much of a social life outside of teaching?
Were the authorities subliminally jealous of Jesus for his skills of knowing immediately the appropriateness of everything? Powers they wish they had, wanting the secret. Were they bad people, or just cranky and ignorant and misinformed, provincial as certain stripes of incoherent politics are praised over the good and the logical out in the hinterlands, which then the urban powers must defer to. Jesus versus Boehner and his Tea Party base, Jesus in some way too gentle to, even he, understand the foolishness of expecting society to function without taxes to build roads and hospitals and schools and places for the sick, that is things for us, things we need ourselves to function. Maybe he expected better out of the Pharisees, for kowtowing to such an ignorant constituency rather than educating and ruling, for being little more than proud obstructionists. Render unto the Tea Party the things of the Tea Party, a joke you could make... Render unto the Koch Brothers...
Would minds not be in some way jealous of a writer firing on all of his cylinders, be they one or two or four or eight, as befits him? Or rather try to learn something, absorb a lesson, whatever it is, realizing that a writer does carry with him many lessons indeed, a teacher, a person not hiding his light, generous to all, even the landowner regarded by some as simply wicked and a hard man to deal with, thus burying the talent rather than investing it, for God is within all things, if that's the way to interpret this mystifying proverb on the nature of the kingdom come.
Should any writer than fear the light of day, of what will be made of him and his work, and rather prefer to keep private, trusting those who trust in the same terms he does...
Thus did the whale fascinate Melville, a brother of the deep oceans, rising to breath and frolic, largely silent but for his words sounded into the depths for other whales to return. What Melville was working on was appropriately long, to match the deeper wavelength, resonant, resounding, coming back at you with pleasant echoes for the rest of your life at sea.
Shakespeare puts a little of Jesus in everyone, and thus the small moment can expand into a lesson on humanity, even if it's the clown or the gravedigger, for they too have a voice. This he learned through following his own process, going beyond the wooden cut-out sketch, each inhabited by their own light, their own way to salvation whether they follow it or not. No snob was he. He loved the poor and the people in his pit. "Pity that (noble folks) should (come to bad ends) more than their even-Christian." He pitied the rich and powerful, and they made great subject matter for him. All in good humor, lest it get to real to swallow, 'oh, shit, that's me, isn't it.' People in the pit would have shouted out, 'yeah!' He got it. Noble bard.
Having gathered, whoever he was, his powers in the beheading storm of the new faith versus the old, he honored writing, and he saw the redemptive quality in all his characters. Which is largely, his theme. Perhaps, too, he would have known what deals with the devil consisted of.
What is writing, my friend? I don't know, writing is writing. It comes.
Who are you? Who do they say I am, what do they say I am?
Writing is like yoga. The more you, the better you get, the farther your reach, the more you enjoy it.