For me, most writing consists of siphoning out useless pre-story

Deborah Eisenberg, with the candor of one who has wrestled with the craft, proclaimed: “For me, most writing consists of siphoning out useless pre-story matter, cutting and cutting and cutting, what seems to be endless rewriting, and what is entailed in all that is patience, and waiting, and false starts, and dead ends, and really, in a way, nerve.” These words ring not only for writers but for all who struggle to shape the raw chaos of thought into form. For her confession is also a revelation: that creation is not the art of adding, but of removing; not the ease of flowing inspiration, but the discipline of chiseling away until truth stands revealed.

The ancients would have nodded at her wisdom, for they too knew that the sculptor’s art lies in subtraction. Michelangelo, when asked how he carved David, said simply that he cut away all that was not David. So too does Eisenberg speak of writing: it is not the effortless birth of story, but the slow, relentless cutting of the pre-story matter, the wandering paths, the tangled roots, until the living essence is set free. This is why she calls for patience and waiting—because only time, labor, and endurance can reveal the hidden form that lies within.

And yet, there is more than patience in her words; there is also nerve. For who among us has not despaired at the endless rewriting, the false starts, the dead ends? It requires courage to continue when the path is unclear, when the labor seems fruitless. This courage—the nerve to persist in the face of futility—is the very heartbeat of creation. Without it, the writer abandons their tale, the artist forsakes their canvas, the dreamer relinquishes their vision. Eisenberg reminds us that greatness is not born of comfort, but of nerve held steady through the storm of uncertainty.

Consider the tale of Leonardo da Vinci and his masterpiece, The Last Supper. For years, he experimented, erased, painted over, and began again. His work was fraught with technical failure, his method untested, his wall crumbling beneath him. Many would have quit. But Leonardo possessed both patience and nerve. Through false starts and dead ends, he endured, until the world beheld a vision so profound it still draws pilgrims centuries later. His journey is the echo of Eisenberg’s truth: that the path of creation is strewn with obstacles, but persistence refines failure into brilliance.

Eisenberg’s words also teach us about humility. The writer must cut their own beloved sentences, the sculptor must discard fragments of their own labor, the thinker must reject their own false paths. This is the hidden pain of creation—that we must destroy what we once loved in order to discover what is truer, purer, more enduring. It is an act of sacrifice, and like all sacrifice, it demands strength. The artist must bow before the work, not the work before the artist. Patience, waiting, and nerve are the sacred virtues that make this sacrifice possible.

For the listener, the lesson is clear: do not despise the false start, nor curse the dead end. Do not fear the long silence between bursts of creation. These are not signs of failure but necessary steps in the refining fire. When you are tempted to give up, remember that every cut, every rewrite, every discarded attempt is bringing you closer to the essence. What looks like waste is in truth preparation. What feels like stagnation is often gestation.

Therefore, walk your path with patience. Accept the slow chiseling, the relentless editing, the endless rewritings of your own life. And above all, cultivate nerve—that stubborn courage that holds fast when all seems lost. For whether you are writing words, building dreams, or shaping your destiny, the law is the same: creation is a long labor of patience, sacrifice, and courage. Only those who endure the cutting and the waiting will one day behold the masterpiece that was hidden within them all along.