Reflections from Günter Grass and Sylvia Plath: Writing Through Light and Shadow

He had never considered writing a full-time craft—until he stumbled upon Günter Grass's disciplined routine and Sylvia Plath’s untamed bursts of creativity in a book he picked up on a whim. Two contrasting figures, two opposing philosophies—one anchored in structure, the other adrift in the tides of inspiration. And yet, both had mastered the art of writing in their own way.

A few weeks ago, while visiting his family in another city, he picked up a book from a local bookstore—a collection detailing the daily rituals of renowned writers and thinkers. The book had been sitting idly on his desk ever since. A receipt, tucked between its pages, caught his eye. He had never been fond of receipts, always tossing them out immediately. In an attempt to rid himself of it, he reached for the book. As he pulled the random slip of paper from within its pages, his eyes inadvertently fell on a passage about novelist Günter Grass's daily writing routine.

The text was so brief that he had absorbed it before he could even acknowledge what he was reading. It described how Günter wrote. He preferred working exclusively in daylight. Mornings were for reading over breakfast, followed immediately by writing. A coffee break at noon, then back to writing until seven in the evening. When night fell, he would turn to other matters, leaving writing behind for the day.

Reading this passage in one breath, he was hit with multiple realizations. The simplest, and perhaps the most innocent, was that writing could be a full-time job. The act of putting words on paper was significant, a craft not everyone could master. Recognizing this led him to question why he had ever underestimated the power of writing. As he let this thought settle, he reminded himself that Günter Grass was born in 1927—perhaps the craft of writing had been fundamentally different back then. Maybe life had become more difficult, or perhaps he simply wasn’t viewing generational differences rationally.

The second realization struck deeper: this kind of ritual was foreign to him. Not because he disliked order—he admired discipline—but because he had never managed to establish such a routine himself. He woke up at different times every day, spent too much time deciding what he wanted to do, struggled to open his eyes, and felt the weight of his own head pressing down on his neck.

At this point, he began flipping through the book in search of a familiar name. In truth, he was looking for one person: Sylvia Plath. He had always been curious about her routine. When he finally found it and devoured the passage within minutes, something clicked. For the first time, he felt a sense of kinship with Sylvia—an affinity born from shared chaos. Unlike Günter, Sylvia had never established a structured routine. She wrote only when her mind spoke clearly enough to put words together.

"Organized people, disorganized minds," he mused. And then came the final realization—one about realization itself. He made peace with himself. So many times, he had berated himself for being influenced by trivial things, for assigning too much meaning to everything. But in truth, he had been deeply unfair to himself. To delve into something, to connect, to find meaning—depth did not come from the material itself but from within.

He spent the rest of his day reflecting on those few pages, barely two in number.