There’s a certain tyranny in forcing the thing you love, the thing that animates you, to feed you. The compromises which attend this process are many and varied, resulting most often in a serviceable mediocrity which seems to be the publishing business’s stock in trade.

Writing generated in an atmosphere of anxiety looks very different than writing generated in an atmosphere of love. There are no guarantees of quality anywhere, of course — anxious writing can be great, and lovely writing can suck — but if quality and trueness to one’s individual voice and calling are important, it’s best to take the economic imperative out of the equation and give the writing room to breathe, grow and develop on its own, according to its own lights…like a child raised by a loving family, rather than one raised in Dickensian squalor.

Here via Bibliophile Stalker, btw.