Writing is something that must be done. It is cathartic. There’s something pleasurable about fitting words together on a page like a puzzle. Seeing the picture they create, the meaning they make, is amazing.
I’m blessed to have found something I enjoy so much. But I take it for granted. It can be hard to find the right motivation. I wouldn’t say it is a confidence issue, more of a procrastination one. Writing is a lot of work.
There are days where I can spend hours moving commas or switching out phrases or words for ones that I believe fit better. But it’s probably all just the same. I’m under the impression that most people who write that are serious about writing go through a similar process. It is an attempt to achieve perfection at a craft that could never contain it; writing is a subjective, personal activity, so whatever one creates must be perfect in that it has never existed before.
Striving for perfection in the arts, in anything human perceived, is silly. An artist tends to wonder if they could have created something grander. Even if they could have, there would always be someone who did not like their work. One’s perfect story is another’s most hated.
The same holds true for unpolished material, too. Sometimes, it can wind up becoming a favorite. Versions of The Last Tycoon, the novel F. Scott Fitzgerald was working on when he died, contain the author’s personal notes. “Try passage again, but with appropriate mindset.” What did he mean by this? To the reader, many passages that were meant to be rewritten are immaculate.
If an idea is a special one that the artist feels passionate about, it must be worked on until it is rediscovered. Once one runs out of ideas they’re done. That’s why writing can be like old clothing. Sometimes, it just needs to be let go of.
Microfiction
