When finally I mustered the courage to tell a novelist friend

“When finally I mustered the courage to tell a novelist friend that I was talking to editors about a biography, her reply was, ‘Oh, that’s okay. That’s not a real book.’” Thus spoke Stacy Schiff, a master of biography and truth, whose words reveal the silent struggle of the soul that creates. Her statement is not merely about writing—it is about validation, courage, and the quiet wounds inflicted by misunderstanding. In this moment, Schiff unveils a truth known to every artist, thinker, and dreamer: that the path to authentic creation is not only marked by labor, but by the courage to defy dismissal—to persist when one’s work is deemed lesser, unreal, or unworthy.

For in the world of creation, there exists a hierarchy of esteem, woven not from truth but from pride and illusion. The novelist, believing fiction to be the highest art, dismisses the biographer as a mere recorder of lives. Yet Schiff reminds us that to capture another’s soul upon the page—to breathe understanding into the past—is an act of imagination no less divine. Biography, too, is art; it is the resurrection of memory, the weaving of fact into meaning. And to dare such work requires a courage as profound as that of any poet or storyteller. For the biographer faces not the blank page alone, but the weight of another’s humanity, the burden of justice to the dead.

It is no small task to muster courage against the condescension of one’s peers. Every generation knows this pain. When Vincent van Gogh painted his fields of gold and skies of flame, his contemporaries dismissed him as mad, saying, “This is not real art.” When Emily Dickinson poured her soul into verse, the critics of her day whispered, “These are not real poems.” And yet, time—the final judge—revealed their brilliance. Their works, once rejected, became eternal testaments to the truth that no art is unreal if it springs from sincerity. Schiff’s experience, then, stands not as complaint, but as revelation: that creative courage must walk through fire before it shines.

In her words, we hear an ancient echo—the tension between form and essence, between what the world calls “real” and what the soul knows to be true. The novelist’s scorn is not born of malice, but of blindness. She cannot see that truth wears many forms. The storyteller invents worlds that never were; the biographer restores worlds that once were. Both summon the same divine force: the yearning to understand existence. To belittle one is to misunderstand the sacred unity of creation itself. For whether one writes of gods or men, imagined or remembered, the purpose is the same—to make the unseen visible, the forgotten eternal.

The lesson, dear listener, is clear and timeless: do not allow others to define the reality of your craft. The world will always have its gatekeepers—those who say, “That is not real art,” “That is not real work,” “That is not real courage.” But the true creator knows that authenticity, not approval, is the measure of worth. If your work is born from truth, it is as real as breath, as necessary as light. Let others speak in ignorance; you must speak in conviction. To create sincerely is to honor both yourself and the world that made you.

To live by this wisdom, practice steadfastness of heart. When you meet dismissal, do not answer in anger—answer in excellence. When they doubt your path, let your work become your proof. Remember that the oak tree was once dismissed as a seed too small to matter. Greatness is not born in validation; it is forged in solitude, in persistence, in the courage to continue even when misunderstood. Every creator, every dreamer, every reformer must learn this sacred patience.

So take comfort in Stacy Schiff’s experience, for it is the story of all who strive to bring truth into form. The world may not yet understand your labor, but that does not make it less real. Reality, after all, is not measured by applause—it is measured by the quiet integrity of creation itself. Stand firm, then, in your purpose. Create not to please, but to reveal. For what is real in art, as in life, is not the form it takes, but the soul that gives it life.