Warning: Mild profanity ahead.
From time to time, one comes to a place of questioning. The question is, what the fuck am I doing?
It’s a common question among ‘artists,’ or ‘creative types,’ or even ‘slackers,’ however we define ourselves. I’m working on this project (story, piece, whatev) and then I hit a wall. I suppose some might call it writer’s block. Others, existential angst. Or occupational futility.
Art, writing, creation, all this is necessary. At the same time, it is inherently self-indulgent and useless. It accomplishes nothing (material). It serves no (obvious) purpose. It’s just making stuff because you want to. No one else cares.
Hence, the question.
I finished Dreamscapes. I came back to it, hated it, took it apart, put it back together, threw up my hands in frustration, gave up, started over – and then suddenly had something I was really happy with. I did the same thing, more or less, with The Edge. Now I’m in the middle of the process with The Way (I fucking hate that title but I don’t yet have a better one). Everything looks familiar about it; I know I just have to keep going and all will be well on the other side. In the moment, however, everything sucks and what the fuck am I doing.
That’s all. Nothing has changed; we ebb and flow and back up and erupt and ebb and flow again. But the backed-up part really kind of stinks.