Semi-Productive

The last few days have been rather productive for me. Not in the sense of my site, or even working on new comics--or the two guest comics I agreed to do--but I made some significant headway on my novel. It really is starting to shape up into something halfway readable.

In order to work on it, I've had to cut away all distractions, just hole myself up in my room, and pray for the ability to focus. And it's working, slowly, yes, but working.

It just bugs me that I waste so much of my time on worthless interweb sites. Amusing they may be, but they don't fulfill my soul, not the way that creating does.

One of my friends recently started recording music again, and commented that he hadn't felt this good in a long time. I have to agree that creating something, anything, has a beautiful satisfaction to it that can't be replicated by any other means.

I have no idea what you're into, what makes you feel worthwhile and at rest, but take the time to lock yourself in your garage to weld that new sculpture, hid under the stairs and crochet until your heart stops, and sweat over the stove as the aroma of your latest concoction fills the area. Create. Feed your soul.

The Detrimental Muse

I'm all for things being so freaking awesome that it sparks whatever little goblin that lives in your creative organs and fires them up, but sometimes, the world proves that too much of a good thing can be bad. Every now and again there is that piece of work that makes me just want to cry because it hurts how perfect it is. Then there are the things that have to go in, fiddle with your inner gears, and change your outlook for the rest of your life.

Lois Lowry's The Giver sprouted my eternal devotion to books.
Jeunet and Caro's The City of Lost Children made me want to be a director.
Failure's "Fantastic Planet" plucked a heartstring that is still twanging.
Alan Moore's The Watchmen showed me what comics could be, thus making me want to create my own.
My brother's art threw me into a lifetime of doodles.
And now there is Junot Diaz's The Breif Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao.

I don't think I've ever read something this perfect. It's so good that it makes a wannabe writer such as myself want to just say "Screw it. If there are people like this out there, why does the world need me?" Luckily, for every life-changing book that hits the shelves, film that flickers in theatres, album to download, there are about a thousand more that out and out blow. I hate the moments like this, when I'm so inspired by the work of another's hands that I loose the tangibility of my dreams...