Today I really don’t want to write. But it’s that time again, and deadlines have no interest in how I feel. I recently read an essay (that’s what I call articles over 500 words) about exacting standards of perfection. That’s not what the article was about, but it was one of the points in it, and it stood out to me. I’ve yet to achieve what I consider my exacting standards, and as far as I can tell even those who have feel that their work could always be better.
All that time spent tinkering and toying and writing and smashing heads against walls and messing up and losing work and getting frustrated and starting all over again because it ain’t right. Sometimes learning how to do something, sometimes doing stuff when it’s absolutely the last thing I want to do. I used to wait for inspiration to strike. Inspiration is a fickle master.
When I’m in the thick of it, I am immersed; lost in the waters of whatever I am working on. It’s when I stop to come up for air that I start to drown. And no platitudes make any difference. For the driven, who is the master? Certainly not inspiration, who shows up when it suits and leaves when it sees fit. Obsession is generally considered unhealthy. I think it has its place.
I am amazed by the craftmanship and craftwomanship of people who master their art. The absolute obsession with perfection that pulls them day and night to fill some hole, and to assemble masterpieces. The pure grit that it takes to see something through to the very end. I aspire to that.
Fuck inspiration. I’m gonna keep turning the crank.
Roll hard or die trying.