A Spec in Time Series

I got a review? I got a review! On Amazon, I got a review…on my book. Things are kinda happening. I have now sold more books than I thought I would. I forced both my friends to buy 2 books, I thought that would be the end of it. I must have more friends, because other peeps wouldn’t buy it – right? But numbers seem to indicate that maybe a few do.

I may have a library talk soon and definitely one (late spring) in my favorite sleepy mountain town where a friend of mine is on the board. My friends are great. I thank each and every one for their support. They have heard me bitch, cry, and wish to die or just quit writing even letters.  

I think that all artists of any type are extraordinarily self-critical. We cannot accept what people say, if it is positive. ‘You’re just saying that because you like me for some reason.’  If it is negative, even slightly it is all ‘yeah, we know.’ We crave, actually we need the praise, but what do you do with it if you are lucky enough to get it? What do you do when you are so use to criticism? When you are so sure that whatever you have created is nothing but complete trash?

Competition is so high in any art form; whether it is a seat in an orchestra, a book in the crowd, or a painting on a coffee shop wall. “That one is so much better.” “ooo butt pucker.” “There is so much wrong with that chapter.” Thoughts like these are imbedded in me.

I don’t think that I started out life as a perfectionist, I’m sure some of it was conditioned from a young age. What I do know is it was years as a classical musician that refined that quality, and promoted the ideal of perfection onto its golden pedestal. Every note, every rehearsal, every performance. Sometimes I still think perfectionism exists. -feel my shrink cringe now- Then I slap myself, and just as strictly, remind myself that it is a concept: a nonexistent construct.

If you’re a sadist, just tell an artist that they did something good. If you’re really mean, tell them how great they are. That always brings on the tears. I will go back and make corrections, practice more, or burn it up. It’s just the nature of the temperament. Now I guess I should say: sometimes there are exceptions to these statements. But we will talk about narcissistic psychopaths in another blog.

The fire and passion we have for our work is second only to the fear and distaste we experience. There is always that one flat note that keeps it from being an acceptable concert; that toe point; that typo. Perfectionism does not exist. It is a fallacy. Never has there been a perfect creation by an artist in existence. It may be perfect to you, but to its creator – they will always see that one brush hair left in the paint.  

P.S. By the way, that review was good. Very good. I will be in my room crying for the week. Then correcting that paragraph in book two around word 39,738.