Art can be a real pain in the ass.
Ninety percent of the time, you feel like you’re going nowhere. You work and work, and nothing seems to improve. Sometimes you’ll have a small breakthrough, and sometimes whatever you’re putting together – be it painting, poem, or piece of music – will turn out quite well, and you can be somewhat satisfied, but you still feel a little twinge of doubt in the corner of your brain, a little voice that says ‘Hm, that’s alright, but couldn’t I do better?’
Every now and then, though, there’ll be a real surge. True inspiration doesn’t build up over time, and it won’t come very often, but every now and then you’ll feel a real compulsion to do something. All the emotion you ever felt has flared up in one instant and is begging to be free. You’ll set it free in one long burst, singing, or pen flying across the page, or playing your guitar until you can’t play anymore, until your fingers are numb and the pain in your shoulder spreads across your back, until you crumple under the weight of all that passion.
And then, you’ll sleep. Or you’ll doze for a little, trying to sort out what just happened. You never will be able to pin it down exactly.
The thing is, nothing you create during that ninety percent while you’re actually working is ever as good as what came out in that one explosion. It’s frustrating to think about, but nothing in the world seems to make you happier than those surges.
Well, I think you can subsitute all the you’s for I’s and me’s. Obviously I have no idea what anyone else feels like, but it felt better to write it that way.
Man, my shoulder hurts.
Ninety percent of the time, you feel like you’re going nowhere. You work and work, and nothing seems to improve. Sometimes you’ll have a small breakthrough, and sometimes whatever you’re putting together – be it painting, poem, or piece of music – will turn out quite well, and you can be somewhat satisfied, but you still feel a little twinge of doubt in the corner of your brain, a little voice that says ‘Hm, that’s alright, but couldn’t I do better?’
Every now and then, though, there’ll be a real surge. True inspiration doesn’t build up over time, and it won’t come very often, but every now and then you’ll feel a real compulsion to do something. All the emotion you ever felt has flared up in one instant and is begging to be free. You’ll set it free in one long burst, singing, or pen flying across the page, or playing your guitar until you can’t play anymore, until your fingers are numb and the pain in your shoulder spreads across your back, until you crumple under the weight of all that passion.
And then, you’ll sleep. Or you’ll doze for a little, trying to sort out what just happened. You never will be able to pin it down exactly.
The thing is, nothing you create during that ninety percent while you’re actually working is ever as good as what came out in that one explosion. It’s frustrating to think about, but nothing in the world seems to make you happier than those surges.
Well, I think you can subsitute all the you’s for I’s and me’s. Obviously I have no idea what anyone else feels like, but it felt better to write it that way.
Man, my shoulder hurts.
Fi-ire!
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