Writing takes a lot of patience. It usually takes me a year to

Avi, the beloved teller of tales to the young and the young at heart, once confessed with great honesty: “Writing takes a lot of patience. It usually takes me a year to write a book. One time, it took me 14 years to write a book, not that I worked on it every day.” In these words he does not simply describe his craft, but reveals a timeless truth: that creation is not a matter of speed, but of endurance; not of sudden flashes alone, but of long seasons of waiting, working, and returning again to the labor of the page.

The heart of his teaching lies in the call to patience. For writing, unlike the fleeting art of a spoken word or the swift brushstroke of inspiration, demands time. Ideas must be nurtured, shaped, and sometimes set aside until the mind and heart are ready to carry them forward. A year may pass, or fourteen years, and still the work waits, as a seed waits in the soil until conditions are right. Avi reminds us that the true writer does not force the harvest, but allows the book to grow at its own pace, returning to it faithfully until it finally flowers into life.

History offers us many examples of this truth. Consider the great Leo Tolstoy, who spent years crafting War and Peace, rewriting it countless times before he was satisfied. Or J. R. R. Tolkien, who labored for more than a decade on The Lord of the Rings, his imagination slowly weaving a world vast and intricate. These works, now monuments of literature, would not exist without the patience of their authors, who endured long years of uncertainty before their visions stood complete. Avi’s 14 years are not a failure, but a reflection of the same timeless rhythm of great creation.

This endurance is not only about time, but about humility. A writer must admit that he cannot always master the story in a single stroke. Sometimes, he must step back, leave the work, live life, and return with new eyes. As Avi confesses, he did not labor on the book every day, but it remained with him, a silent companion across the years. This is the humility of the artist: to recognize that some works demand more from us than we first imagine, and that our growth as humans is often as important as our labor as writers.

The lesson applies beyond literature. In any craft, whether building a house, raising a child, or shaping one’s own character, progress is not always swift. The greatest monuments of the world—the pyramids, the cathedrals, the temples—took generations to build. Each stone was laid with patience, by hands that knew they might not live to see the completion. Yet their endurance gave birth to wonders that still stand. So too, the patient writer, artist, or worker leaves behind something greater than himself.

Avi’s words also caution us against the impatience of the modern age. In a world that celebrates speed and instant gratification, he teaches that depth requires slowness. A book written in a rush may fade quickly; a book written with patience may endure. Likewise, a life lived chasing quick victories may vanish like smoke, but a life lived with persistence and endurance will bear fruit that lasts. Patience is not weakness—it is strength stretched across time.

Therefore, O seekers of wisdom, take Avi’s confession to heart. Whatever your work may be, embrace patience as your ally. Do not despise the years it takes to build something worthy. Begin, return, pause, and begin again, as many times as necessary. For when the work is finally complete—whether after one year or fourteen—you will know that it was shaped not by haste, but by the steady hand of endurance. And that, like the greatest books of history, is what makes creation immortal.