Edits for first draft of my book came back.
I crawled into a ditch of “I’m A Worthless Writer, This Story Is Garbage, And I’ll Never Write Anything Ever Again.”
I stayed in the ditch for several days.
Ate pizza and ice cream sandwiches.
And then, I crawled out.
Art takes time.
Growth as an artist—or a human being for that matter—is painful.
Beware of rushing.
Beware of ego.
Beware of greed.
These three things push us to produce something that is not ready to be released, and to deliver mediocrity to the world.
Will we embrace the pain and the time it takes to make something that is more than mediocre?
Do we realize that mediocrity is everywhere?
Are we really ok with that?