You have to first be a writer and somebody who loves to write.

In the voice of the wanderer and the seeker of stories, truth is revealed. So spoke Tim Cahill, traveler of the earth and chronicler of its wonders: “You have to first be a writer and somebody who loves to write. If I couldn’t travel, I would still write.” His words ring with the clarity of ancient wisdom, for they remind us that the essence of art is not in circumstance, but in devotion. The true artist does not create because conditions are perfect; he creates because he must.

To be a writer is not merely to arrange words, but to burn with a fire that seeks expression. Travel may inspire, broaden, and enrich the mind, but it is not the root of the art. The root is love—a relentless love for the act itself, for the rhythm of language, for the shaping of thought into form. Just as the river flows whether watched or unseen, the writer writes, whether in the solitude of a room or in the vastness of distant lands. The art exists not for reward or recognition, but because silence is unbearable when words remain unspoken.

We see this truth in the life of Emily Dickinson, who, though she rarely left the confines of her home in Amherst, produced poetry that touched the very soul of humanity. She did not need to wander the continents, for she traveled the inner landscapes of thought, sorrow, and wonder. Had she been denied even her small garden, she would still have written, for the impulse was not external but eternal. Like Cahill, she proves that the true lover of words will not abandon them, even when stripped of worldly adventure.

The ancients understood this as well. Consider Homer, blind bard of Greece. Whether or not he journeyed himself, he wove the tales of Odysseus’ voyages, bringing to life the seas and shores of the known world and beyond. Perhaps his own body was limited, but his words traveled farther than any ship, farther than any spear could fly. Here lies the power of Cahill’s insight: travel enriches, but it is the love of writing that makes the tales immortal.

And yet, his words also serve as a warning. Too often, men and women pursue the trappings of an art without loving the art itself. They wish for the travel, the acclaim, the adventure, the admiration of others—but they do not wish for the quiet, daily discipline of the craft. Such souls cannot endure, for when the roads are closed and the crowds are silent, their reason to create vanishes. Only those who love the act itself, in solitude and obscurity, will endure through trial.

The lesson, then, is simple but profound: whatever your chosen art, let your first love be the craft itself, not its rewards. Be the painter who would still paint if no gallery existed, the singer who would still sing in an empty hall, the writer who would still write even if every page lay unread. For in such devotion lies not only greatness, but freedom—freedom from the fickle winds of fortune, freedom from the need for applause, freedom to live authentically in your calling.

Practically, this means cultivating your craft each day, not for praise but for joy. Rise in the morning and write a page, even if none shall see it. Sketch a line, sing a note, carve a shape—not because the world demands it, but because your spirit does. Seek inspiration in travel if it comes, but do not depend upon it; the true journey is inward, and it requires no passport, only courage.

Thus, Cahill’s wisdom is both ancient and eternal: the true writer does not write because of the road, but because of the soul. The love of the act itself must come first, for without it, all else is fleeting. Let us then live not as those who wait for perfect conditions, but as those who create from love, in season and out of season. For the one who loves the work will never be empty-handed, and even if all else is stripped away, the fire within will remain, burning still, eternal.