The problem is that I expect value in what I create and as such lock focus on my results. This sabotages efforts to get anything done. The art I've seen and the books I've read left indelible marks upon my life and I would not be where I am today without them. I expect what I create to fall into this category, wholly forgetting that I've seen a lot of silly things and read a lot of pulpy trash. For some reason, it isn't okay for me to make something experimental that doesn't look good, or write (save) any prose that isn't sparkling and valid. I spent my youth drawing in margins and filling notebooks with dreary poetry and indulgent fanfiction. Such unimportant meanderings are exactly why I am where I sit today. And yet, I judge myself, harshly, when I cannot produce noteworthy results.
What changed? Everything. I made a big decision and ripped myself away from my life and home and family and job and came to the desert to make a new me. I'm expecting important results from such an important change. Lackluster art and blemished prose is not acceptable. I should be reflecting the epic, dear! Why the hell am I just fiddling in the margins and turning in stories that start in the middle and don't entirely end?
I guess this is a goddamn process.
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