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You think you know a person, right. And then she pulls some random shit like this on you.
What is happening right now. You’d like to know. I bet.
You think you know yourself.
You think you know all there is to know inside what you already know and then you got comfortable there.
I’d like to disrupt you for a second, babe, if that’s cool. Because while you are warm and snuggled there in the chaise lounge corner of your punchy Ikea Nockeby sectional, your mind is getting dull and your face is pulling sunken and your beautiful, beautiful wild spirit is growing stupid-restless.
When you find yourself in that rare and paralyzing and exquisite place where it’s scary to write and it’s scary to not write – maybe think about this.
We sit around and we mull over and we wallow in the waiting . . . to see if our creation will ever finally look us dead in the eye. To see if we’ll be okay, if we’ll ever become ready, if we’ll ever find the strength, the reasons, the angle, the answers, the perfect what-have-you.
To expose ourselves.
To lay naked on the table and not budge.
You would think an artistic success would be a good thing, right?
You would think that to be celebrated for your great work and your creative elegance would be just the very thing you need to keep you going. It would be sparkled and engaging and open you up even more widely, more broadly, more deeply to your art.
More likely, though, it will stop you dead in your tracks.