What is the similarity between a writer and a bricklayer？

Enigma, wonder, fear, rapture, grandeur, and trivia in every degree and combination, these early impressions throb and wait for what? Completion of some kind? For recognition of their own peculiar truth? It would seem their wounds want lancing; their secret knowledge wants telling; the discoveries would be shared, and woes admitted, and the airy tracery of beauty given form.

Thus variously laden we move through life, and now and then an experience, often slight, prices the memory and seizes upon one of those live, expectant impressions of long age, and a quickening1 takes place.

Like any seed, the seed of a story has its own principle of growth which employs a process of intelligent selection, drawing from the unconscious mind's vast treasury of experience that it needs to fulfill its inherent form: there come together people and their ways, with weather and times and places, and the souls of things. In short, there is produced a world, complete with stars and stumbling blocks.

What is the relation between the process of composing a story and the writer's experience with the Sputnik 2?