I have been thinking a lot recently about holes. Like this:
Which I mean metaphorically. I am really thinking about the creative process, specifically the idea of problems or errors and of fixing.
Let me come out here as an obsessive fixer. EG. If I don’t have enough of my own problems to fix, I’ll volunteer myself to fix yours or tv characters’, or dead people’s—I don’t discriminate!
I love the soothing, wax-on/wax-off rhythm of revision the same way I love over-scratching a mosquito bite. Sometimes this a good thing, but—ask anyone who’s dated me (lucky bastards, i know)—sometimes it’s insanely annoying.
So, now that I’ve established myself as a neurotic perfectionist… How can a creative work—art–something alive ever be considered perfect? Perfection implies a finality, a pre-determined state, a destination. A 5-lane highway with shiny green “___ miles til” signage. But when I begin a story, I…
View original post 1,125 more words