This morning I woke up and discovered interrobang had gotten some work done last night on the paintings he'd begun. Similarly, I wrote about a page of James, of the Desert, the serial I'm working on. Already I've thought of half a dozen ways to condense that one page into half the space, or conversely, how I might draw it out a bit more.
It only reinforces what I've known for years, at least, and others have pointed to, as well: working as an artist is satisfying only when work is getting done; to use what approaches a fatuous platitude, the best way to wash the dishes is to wash the dishes; and I am utterly responsible for my own frustrations when I neglect to pursue that which brings me joy.
Writing, for me, has long been a way to sort and explore, to make sense of English, and to know myself. It's only logical that if I seek to indulge my insatiable selfishness, I must continue to seek solace in the pen, the paper, the processor, whichever.
What continues in paramount importance is that the dishes get washed. Because I hate dirty dishes.


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