I think one of my follies as a writer- and as an actor and probably as a person as well- is my insatiable need to make everything big and perfect. Everything. Like this blog is not just a blog: this a canvas on which I must smear the bloodpaints of my soul and offer humbly to the Gods of Creativity and their various consorts.
And that is why I have not updated since September. Bloodpaintings on a regular basis are harrrrd.
So, no more perfection. Perfection is nice every now and then, but let’s be real. Perfection is not an accessible weekly goal. I’m not saying my past work has been beyond reproach. I think what I do is quite close to reproach. Adjacent, really. It’s the striving for perfection that fucks me up. It hinders all creative conquests. It’s like saying to a month-old baby “GET UP! GET THE FUCK UP! WHY AREN’T YOU RUNNING MARATHONS, YOU LAZY SACK OF SHIT?” Babies can’t run marathons, no matter how much you yell at them. Babies need to learn how to walk, and then walk without falling, and then run, and then run without falling, and then run for a long time, and then run for an even longer time, and so on and so forth. At some point, the baby will also have to learn not to poop in his or her pants. Or maybe diaper dependency is actually a good thing thing when you are running 26 miles. What I’m trying to say is, I’ve never run a marathon, but if I had I would not have been a baby.
If I am trying to say anything with this little bit of word-mess is that it is okay to fuck up. In fact, it is necessary and inevitable. If you try to make everything perfect or even exceptional you are going to end up frustrated and disappointed with a blog that has only five posts in the last year.
So no more perfection for me. No more bloodpaintings, no more soul-canvases no more crying out to the Muses for validation. I’m just going to make stuff. Making stuff feels pretty good.