It is frustrating at times, knowing the width of the gap between our artistic aspiration and our current skill level. Every so often I reach a point where I feel a decline in progression, a reduction of pace. I tend to be a patient person, but I have limits just like everyone else. My impatience stems in the very frustration I mentioned even though I know what I have to do in order to bridge the gap.
Read, read and write until my eyes are tired, my fingers ache, and my head is spinning. Going through this particular crucible has become a bit of an addiction, and when I deprived of the sometimes remarkably painful experience I stagnate. So it is especially when literary endeavors must compete with schooling for time.
Over time I have found that I develop the most and at a much faster rate when I’m hit in the chest by life. The harder it hits the stronger my need to write becomes. Grief and sorrow have been such triggers in the past. Contentedness, on the other hand, is as much of a curse as it is a blessing – a curse but never to the point where it develops into a desire for calamity, but contentedness is not very stimulating.
Truly, one of the things that frightens me the most is the idea that happiness could lead me into creative stagnation and it is also something I hope will prove false in the future. At the moment I am content, relatively speaking, but lacking motivation. Then again, if people only did what they felt like we would never get anything done. It is high time I hauled myself out of the lazy-chair and got some real work done.