Journaling, Critique, and Developing The Craft
As I begin my first, tentative steps back into the mantle of "Writer" I consistently sabotage my own efforts. Sitting around as a slovenly heap of fiction gobbling biomass, I fill thousands upon thousands of gleaming blank kilobytes with the useless drivel of my Journal. Smug in the knowledge that I can convince, even myself, that "this is crucial to the writing process," I drearily pour out the most trivial of thoughts.
But journals don't force upon you the creative spark known as The Deadline, nor do they offer the harsh critique of a stranger. They are like the forgiving puppy, accepting all of the extra words your mind generates through the day without a whine of boredom. A junk drawer of useless sentences. Journals are good for the hand muscles but they can easily be a crutch for the mind.
My mother recently said that to be judged is the mark if the artist. The artist who keeps his works to himself has no right to the title; to be judged is to be brave enough to improve. Like any grown adult I can’t stand it when my mother is right but it’s hard to dispute when her paintings adorn not only her home and mine but also the homes of some rather important people.
At thirty years of age I have honed myself into a crude wordsmith, now let's see if I have the courage not to punch the critic in the kisser.
But journals don't force upon you the creative spark known as The Deadline, nor do they offer the harsh critique of a stranger. They are like the forgiving puppy, accepting all of the extra words your mind generates through the day without a whine of boredom. A junk drawer of useless sentences. Journals are good for the hand muscles but they can easily be a crutch for the mind.
My mother recently said that to be judged is the mark if the artist. The artist who keeps his works to himself has no right to the title; to be judged is to be brave enough to improve. Like any grown adult I can’t stand it when my mother is right but it’s hard to dispute when her paintings adorn not only her home and mine but also the homes of some rather important people.
At thirty years of age I have honed myself into a crude wordsmith, now let's see if I have the courage not to punch the critic in the kisser.
