On Writing, Fear, and Perfection

There is a tremendous amount of experiences to be afraid of.  It's not even worth taking the time to discuss, at this point.  There is, simultaneously, a tremendous amount of solidarity among people.  Women are encouraging each other and supporting each other and, often, just being conscious that everyone does things a little differently.  I have often felt so self-conscious in comparing my work to other's, and comparing my creativity to other people's will to create, that it stops me from creating something myself.  There is so much to fear in American life right now, why am I afraid of my own creativity?  Of expressing myself?

I've been hearing about Plato, and I think something about the relation between a one single form stands alone from everything else, but anyway I've been told that nothing can be perfect because there is no way to compare what is to it as a perfect thing since it is at it simply is.  Read that over again: nothing can be perfect because it cannot exist in another state than it is, so what is may perhaps just be perfection.

And there is this one other seemingly small blip in life that I am totally inspired by, and it was a statement in an Instagram comic by Mari Andrew: Just get some words down and <PooF!> instant writer.  I read about so many people getting book deals and publishing and editing and drawing and expressing themselves creatively or intelligently or hilariously, and I think that statement is true because it all started with the simple act of writing. If you write, you're a writer.  If you create art, you are an artist.  If you make music, you are a musician.  Why not?  Who is going to tell you otherwise, and why would you listen to them anyway?  Why be troubled by perfection when ..what even is perfection?

So I'm putting this out into the universe tonight because I literally don't have the time, or capacity, or strength not to:


And next I will be reading!  I'm about a third of the way through an advance copy of The Yonahlossee Riding Camp for Girls by Anton Disclafani that Daniel at Boswell Book Company gave me several years ago.  WILL I finish it by Friday?  No one can tell!