It's taken a while for me to face up to my blog and start writing again. Often people are afraid that since they cannot achieve perfection, it is better to achieve nothing than to achieve imperfection.
I have returned now and though my words may sometimes be laden heavily with blemishes, I am happy to wade towards perfect shores. In the style of that flamboyant, melodramatic artist-type, I felt nothing would allow me to begin better than to purge myself of the old, and so I have deleted fourteen of what I felt have been my weakest blog posts. Never has impoverishment felt so enriching.
There's still some chaff cluttering a corner here and there, to be sure, but I was happy to find that reviewing what I thought would be solely childish and badly-phrased works has actually been more like remembering old friends. Bizarrely, in my search I have found a nesting comment from a stranger, quite recent, complimenting my writing. My first, and it has made me smile a great deal. Thank you, Vevay.
Imperfect words are waiting to be written.
The Theremin Project
Lobotomisingly trippy artwork courtesy of M.C. Escher.
1 comment:
I wonder what would happen if your would march just as happily to imperfection. Fearless about what the journey would bring you. Why is it us who demand perfection when birds and dogs and flowers and trees just grow as they grow without judgement or favour. They just are.
And your writing in my eyes is perfect. Always. Always.
For within you lies enormous beauty.
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