I’ve been working so hard lately–on my papers for school, on my play, on the libretto. And I’ve been getting the best possible feedback. It feels so good for a day or two; it’s a drug.
But here’s the problem: past work is never enough. At a certain point, it doesn’t feel like a part of you. It feels like an accident, like some wonderful thing someone else did and let you sign off on. Good work is worthless once it’s finished, even worse–it holds you hostage. The promise of new work, fresh work, better work, becomes inconceivable.
So when I sat down this morning, I froze up. After everything I’ve done the past week–on joy rides and Catholics and open letters and the living dead and cursed men–I worry that I have no more good ideas left.
And so I stare into the mirror, at my face, looking for clues.
The Anatomy of Wandering - Anh Doung
