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I’ve been writing. Hold your applause to the end please. I’ve mentioned in a post not too long ago that I wanted to get back into the habit and I guess I finally found the right combination of circumstances, drive, and inspiration to do it. So now as a born again writer, I retain the right to call every and anything I have written so far complete and total crap.

It’s practically divinely ordained that I hate my writing, after all don’t all great artists think their work is total utter trash? It’s always when you start buying into the hype of your own genius that you begin to make true garbage. I’m sure that’s a paraphrase of a quote I’ve heard somewhere.  There isn’t a particular reason that I can point to that makes me hate my writing, other than it’s mine and I know I am full of ***t. Or that is my estimation of the situation in any case.

I’m always hampered by expectations of the finished product.  Most of the time its my own and, in the cases of academic papers, my teachers’.  There are a number of proverbs I could rattle off about appreciating the journey and not the destination, but they are cliched and worthless, because they can’t fix my brain. My brain says that if it’s crap now, it’s going to be crap at the end. Maybe it’s because my mind is so hemmed in as a reader that the part of my brain that is hyper critical towards bad finished products sees my fledgling steps and with razor sharp claws descends upon my works in progress and rips them to shreds and swallows the pieces.

Self editing is that finely sharpened edge of the sword. You have to balance it perfectly or else skewer yourself with it.  I lead towards the anal side of self editing when it comes to most things. I say lean towards because there comes a point where I’m just like screw it and eat a waffle instead of trying to make something absolutely perfect. Oh, but I endeavor at first. I endeavor indeed. It makes me wonder about those artists who have died before their time.  Some, most, addicted to some kind of substance; always trying to numb life.  They’re usually the victims of their own hubris.  Caught inextricably between their insignificant self view and the cult of celebrity doggedly attached to them by the generous masses.

Take Natalie Portman’s character in Black Swan for instance. Insanity, mutilation, and *SPOILER ALERT* death all for her art.  To be a genius it seems feels like you have to either be a complete natural at it, or you have to throw so much of yourself into something that you lose your way back and the very fiber of your existence pulses and fades with your art…

I feel like I have digressed here a bit. The point I am attempting to make isn’t that I think that I am a genius, but that I want to make/create something worthy of note. My goal isn’t to go out and inspire and it isn’t even to help anyone, as noble a pursuit as that may be for doing anything. I simply want to read my work and feel proud of it and have the ceaseless chatter of the inner critic silenced by my own personal triumph.

Insert Inspirational Music Here,
J.R.H.

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