I would love to write a screenplay for 'Badlands' one day. I

Halsey, the poet of modern song, once confessed with raw honesty: “I would love to write a screenplay for ‘Badlands’ one day. I don’t think I could ever have the patience to do it; I don’t even have the patience to write songs. I write some of the shortest songs ever because I don’t have the patience.” These words, though filled with self-deprecating humor, unveil a timeless truth about the struggle of creation—the tension between vision and endurance, between the fire of inspiration and the discipline required to shape it fully.

At the heart of her reflection lies the virtue of patience. For every work of art—be it story, sculpture, or symphony—demands not only the spark of imagination but the long labor of crafting, refining, and enduring frustration. Halsey admits that her gift burns quickly, producing songs of brevity, flashes of brilliance, but rarely the extended architecture of long works. This is not weakness, but a candid recognition that every creator must wrestle with their temperament. Some are sprinters of art; others are marathoners. Both paths reveal beauty, though in different measures.

The ancients understood this struggle. Consider Michelangelo, who painted the Sistine Chapel ceiling across years of backbreaking toil. His vision was monumental, but it required patience beyond measure: lying on scaffolds, wrestling with fatigue, and enduring endless days before the full grandeur was revealed. His art is remembered not only for its inspiration, but for his capacity to endure. In contrast, the haiku poets of Japan distilled the universe into three short lines, embracing brevity as their strength. Both are remembered, for greatness does not lie only in length, but in authenticity.

Halsey’s longing to write a screenplay for “Badlands” is the voice of every artist who dreams of larger canvases but feels daunted by the weight of discipline. The screenplay is vast, sprawling, demanding—a cathedral compared to the intimate chapel of a song. Yet her words reveal that desire does not always align with temperament, and that part of wisdom is knowing one’s limits, even while yearning to surpass them. She teaches us that admitting a lack of patience is not defeat, but honesty, and from honesty springs growth.

There is also a lesson here about the rhythm of creativity. The world often praises only the long, the grand, the enduring. But Halsey reminds us that short works—brief songs, fleeting verses—carry their own power. A short song may pierce the heart more deeply than a long epic, just as a single phrase may change a life more than a thousand speeches. The value of art lies not in its length, but in the truth it conveys. For even the lightning, though brief, illuminates the entire sky.

History provides a mirror in the story of Emily Dickinson. She rarely wrote long, sprawling poems, but short verses that distilled emotion and truth in a few lines. Many in her time dismissed her brevity as minor, yet today her words are revered as among the greatest in literature. She, like Halsey, turned her impatience with long form into a strength, proving that the short can endure as long as the monumental.

Thus the lesson for us is clear: honor your own rhythm, but strive also to cultivate patience, for it is the bridge that carries vision into fullness. If you are gifted in short works, embrace them; but do not close the door to longer labors, for patience grows through practice. Begin with small steps, expand slowly, and the day may come when even the vast screenplay or the monumental canvas is within your reach.

Therefore, O seekers of art and truth, take Halsey’s confession to heart. Know your strengths, honor your temperament, but do not be bound by them. Practice patience in small acts, until your spirit grows stronger. And remember always: whether short or long, whether fleeting or enduring, true art is measured not in its length, but in the depth with which it moves the human soul.