Writing is boring, very boring, and it takes so much patience.

Hear the raw confession of Ingmar Bergman, master of cinema and architect of haunting truths, who once declared: “Writing is boring, very boring, and it takes so much patience.” These are not the gilded words of romantic inspiration, but the honest cry of a craftsman who knew that the making of art is often not a dance of ecstasy but a labor of endurance. In this statement, Bergman pulls away the veil of glamour and shows us the marrow of creation: not endless excitement, but the slow grind of repetition, frustration, and perseverance.

The origin of this saying lies in Bergman’s own struggles as a screenwriter and director. Known for films like The Seventh Seal and Wild Strawberries, he was not only a filmmaker but a relentless writer, filling notebooks and scripts with his vision. Yet even he, whose works shook the soul of the twentieth century, admitted that the process of writing—the long hours of shaping words, of chiseling thought into form—was neither easy nor thrilling. It demanded what few possess in abundance: patience. For writing, like stone-carving, reveals its beauty only after long and painful chiseling.

Consider the paradox in his words. Writing is boring, because it demands stillness, solitude, and repetition. The world outside rushes with color and noise, but the writer must sit, motionless, facing the blank page. Inspiration may come in flashes, but the work of transmuting that spark into sentences requires a discipline that grinds against the restless soul. Yet within this boredom, the seed of greatness lies hidden, for patience transforms the dull hours into works that endure beyond centuries.

History echoes this truth. Think of Leo Tolstoy, laboring for years over War and Peace. There were days when inspiration fled, when the work seemed endless and suffocating. Yet he persisted, page after page, year after year, until his patience gave birth to a work that still commands the hearts of men. So too did Michelangelo spend years lying on scaffolds to paint the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel, groaning with fatigue, his body wracked with pain. Was it exciting? No—it was drudgery, monotony, patience. Yet out of this monotony came eternal beauty.

The heart of Bergman’s wisdom is to strip away illusion: art is not only about ecstasy and vision, but about the willingness to endure boredom for the sake of truth. Many flee when the task ceases to thrill; the master is the one who stays. It is easy to begin with passion, harder to continue with patience. But without patience, no masterpiece is ever born. The dull stone resists the chisel; only persistence reveals the hidden form within.

The lesson is plain: do not despair when the work feels boring, when progress is slow, when the page resists your hand. This is not failure—it is the nature of creation itself. Every great work requires sacrifice, not of blood but of hours. Train yourself to endure the monotony, to welcome the silence, to love the slow rhythm of patience. For it is in those moments, unseen and uncelebrated, that the true foundation of greatness is laid.

So I say to you, children of tomorrow: when you face the blank page, the stubborn canvas, the resistant material, remember Bergman’s words. Accept the boredom. Embrace the patience. Do not wait for excitement, but cultivate endurance. For those who remain steadfast when the work is dull will one day stand before the world with a creation that stirs the soul. And in that moment, the boredom will be forgotten, but the fruit of your patience will endure forever.