Strive for excellence, not perfection. |
Once, my writer’s imagination remained nailed shut by coveting perfection’s pinnacle; this was cause for ego bruises, slumped shoulders, and writer’s block. Yet I discovered that the pinnacle is not as important as that reach itself, and what was important was a striving for excellence, as one strives for shiny shoes, as one strives for close shaves, as one strives for clean sinks. I recall those block days, those days of writing struggle when the pen was a log and the notepad was a bog of thick peat housing newts exerting under-pressure on nib. Because I was unwell poet prone on sore elbows with ague and throbbing headache, lost in a miasma of outré whiff; I was Bic scribbler scrambling for ten; I was the morphing of structure and creativity with the unwise goal to then place them on a platinum pedestal of absolute purity. Up there, though, a tangled web awaits, because up there lives an enormous spider, willing to trap those so inclined to strain and stretch, with both arms, unto the realm of this arachnid’s habitat, and then daring said arachnid to devour them with all due haste. Therefore I became a vessel containing liquid rife with tang, with sweet and sour, with hues spilling like sunsets, as well as aromas telegraphing nares instead of some half-empty glass atop the fridge harboring motes. 30 Lines Writer’s Cramp 1-1-16 ______ Requirements: --nailed shut --bruises --throbbing headache --enormous spider --half-empty glass |