As most of you know, I spend much of my time thinking about writing. If I won the lotto tomorrow and could spend the rest of my natural life being hand fed and sponged clean on my couch of perpetual self-indulgence, I would STILL be thinking about writing.
Jesus… You tell me? My guess it’s a communicable mental disorder and I have a genetic disposition to it. I’m only sort of joking about that. When it gets a DSM code who’ll be the one laughing?
And as I am, “ate up with the dumbass” I went and infected myself. I’m okay with this. I’ve told myself stories in my head to pass the time since I was a kid mowing the lawn. But Mama, don’t let your babies grow up to be wordsmiths. This world is a mess and the only thing worse than doing it is not doing it once you have the bug.
Case in point. This morning I was talking with a pro friend online and I had a minor epiphany.
Every day for the rest of my life I’m going to wake up and look back at the work I did the day before and realize I was an idiot. No matter how good I get, yesterdays labor will always be the journeyman work of ham-fisted mouth-breather.
(Apologies to my readers with large hands and obstructive sleep apnea)
Talk about a frigging humbling realization.
The saving grace is that I suspect this is true for most creative work, be it painting, photography, dance or fly-fishing. (You try fly-fishing sometime and get back to me)
So on and up. If you’re never a master, then you’re never done.