I haven’t updated in a very long while. My perpetually-almost-done novel is largely to blame.
Finishing things is such an important struggle artists face, especially when self-assessment is the primary driver behind your completion criteria. Others have spoken more eloquently about perfectionism and art than I could in this limited space, but I will simply share something that I wrote in my journal today:
My rational brain knows that I can’t please everyone, and that whatever I do will absolutely, 100% certainly invoke someone’s rage or ridicule. Probably both. Probably multiple someones’. But while I know this to be inevitable, I can’t let go of the childish notion that I can fix it. That just a little more time and effort and experience and elbow grease will counteract the laws of the universe and send me and my untouchable future novel catapulting through some wormhole to a reality wherein it is possible to do work that is loved and admired by everyone, always; and where those glories are even (magically) deserved, earned. This is obviously some next level bullshit. But it says a lot about the sheer ridiculousness of the human psyche that a person can both understand and willfully ignore such realities. [My partner] Jeff’s grandfather had a saying about fools that I find completely hilarious: that they “can’t tell shit from good apple butter.” Well, I’ve blown right past that threshold. The apple butter jar’s sitting right at the corner of my sightline, but I’m still spreading shit thick on my bread with the peanut butter and gobbling that fucker down.
So…that’s the view from my desk, lately.