You just kind of have faith. If that sounds kind of mystical
You just kind of have faith. If that sounds kind of mystical, it's because I really don't know how it works, but I trust that it does. I try to write the way I read, in order to find out what happens next.
"You just kind of have faith. If that sounds kind of mystical, it's because I really don't know how it works, but I trust that it does. I try to write the way I read, in order to find out what happens next." These words, spoken by Richard Russo, express a powerful truth about the creative process and the mystery of inspiration. Faith, in this context, is not the faith rooted in religion or dogma, but rather the trust that when we take a leap into the unknown, whether in writing, art, or any other creative pursuit, the process itself will reveal what we need to move forward. Russo’s admission that he doesn’t fully understand how his craft works, yet trusts that it does, captures the essence of artistic faith—the belief that inspiration, like a river flowing unseen beneath the surface, will carry us to where we need to go, even if we cannot predict the outcome.
In the ancient world, the mystery of creation was often understood as a divine gift, one that flowed from the gods themselves. Homer, the blind poet of ancient Greece, was said to be inspired by the muses, the goddesses of art and creativity. He did not claim to control the flow of the Iliad or the Odyssey, but instead, he relied on the divine guidance of the muses to bring the stories to life. Like Russo, Homer trusted the process of creation, knowing that his role was not to force the narrative but to be receptive to its unfolding. The faith in the unseen, in the inspiration that comes from a source beyond the self, is something that artists throughout the ages have shared, even if they didn’t fully understand how it worked.
Similarly, Leonardo da Vinci, the Renaissance master, embraced the same mystery of creation. Da Vinci's notebooks are filled with ideas, sketches, and half-formed thoughts, but what truly set him apart was his ability to trust that his curiosity and attention would lead him to a greater understanding. Da Vinci’s work was not bound by a rigid plan but flowed organically, as he worked to discover the unknown, whether in his art, anatomy, or engineering. The mystical aspect of his process, much like Russo’s, was his unwavering faith that, through his efforts, the pieces would come together. Like a traveler walking a winding path, he did not know exactly where he was going, but he trusted that each step was part of a larger journey of discovery.
In modern literature, many great writers have spoken of the faith required to create something meaningful. Stephen King, one of the most prolific authors of our time, speaks of writing as a journey into the unknown. Like Russo, King often writes without a detailed plan, allowing the story to unfold as he goes. King has called it "the boys in the basement"—a metaphor for the unconscious mind, from which his best ideas emerge. He doesn’t always know where the story will take him, but he trusts the process and believes that the story will reveal itself. Russo’s words echo this sentiment, for writers often find that their greatest works are not the result of meticulous planning, but of allowing the creative process to guide them.
Russo’s idea of writing the way he reads speaks to a deep understanding of intuition and connection in the creative process. When we read, we don’t always know exactly where the story is going, but we are drawn along by the flow of the narrative. In the same way, Russo writes with the same sense of discovery, trusting that, just as a reader does, he too will be taken somewhere new and unexpected. This act of creation is almost like a dance—it’s not about rigid steps but about moving with the rhythm of the moment, feeling the next step without necessarily knowing it in advance.
In our own lives, Russo’s wisdom can be applied to more than just writing. Faith in the process is essential to any endeavor where the outcome is uncertain. Whether we are starting a new job, embarking on a new relationship, or pursuing a personal goal, we can’t always predict how things will unfold. Yet, like Russo’s approach to writing, we must trust that each effort, each step forward, will eventually lead us to where we need to be. Faith in the process is a powerful tool that allows us to continue moving forward, even when we don’t have all the answers. Just as a writer trusts that the next word will come, so too must we trust that the next step in our lives will unfold as it should.
The lesson here is one of faith, trust, and patience—to move forward without knowing exactly what lies ahead but believing that, in time, the journey will reveal its purpose. Whether in the creation of art or in the journey of life, trust the process, allow the story to unfold, and embrace the mystery of not knowing. By doing so, we free ourselves from the paralyzing fear of the unknown and open ourselves to the discovery of something greater than we could have planned or imagined. Trust the unfolding, and the pieces will eventually come together to reveal the full picture. In life and in art, this trust is the key to meaningful progress.
TUPham Thi Thu Uyen
I like how Russo compares writing to reading your own story as it unfolds. It makes the process feel alive and spontaneous, almost like the writer is discovering rather than inventing. But I also wonder—can too much faith in spontaneity lead to chaos in storytelling? Maybe part of the craft is learning when to trust the unknown and when to step back and give structure to the magic.
TQTran Thuc Quyen
There’s something deeply human about this reflection. It reminds me that creativity often mirrors life itself—you don’t always know where you’re heading, but you keep moving anyway. I wonder if that’s what makes writing so powerful: the act of trusting your curiosity to lead you somewhere meaningful. Do you think this kind of faith applies to other forms of problem-solving, not just storytelling?
TTnguyen thi thanh thao
I find this perspective comforting, especially in a world obsessed with planning and structure. Russo’s approach feels liberating—almost like he’s saying it’s okay not to know what’s next. Still, it raises a question: how much of good writing comes from intuition versus discipline? Maybe the best art happens when both coexist—when faith guides the imagination, but craft keeps it grounded enough to take shape.
HHHam Han
This quote perfectly captures the mystery of creativity. I love how Russo admits that he doesn’t fully understand where inspiration comes from—it just happens through trust in the process. It makes me think about how much of art depends on surrender rather than control. Do all creative people experience that same leap of faith, or is it something unique to writers who discover their stories as they go?