Not long ago I talked about how mainstream entertainment feels like the quest for a better hamburger, one where at the end of the day, all you have is a hamburger. So, I asked myself, what would my books constitute? And then out of nowhere, I thought: They're like potatoes.
Misshapen, irregular, imperfect, lumpen (how I love that word). Left in the dark (after they're finished), they sprout, by provoking me with their alternate possibilities. I could have done this, I could have done that. But you take them, cut them up, fry or bake them. And in the end they all get et.
I try to make the best potatoes I can, at whatever moment I happen to be making them. I know there's always room to improve. But there's no sense in letting that stop me from making something now. And in the end, I'd rather have something a little misshapen that it is its own thing, instead of something made to order.
Now. How much of this is acceptance; how much of it is just self-indulgence? I'm still mulling that one over. If I can help it, I don't want to let these kinds of insights lull me into a self-reinforcing conformity all its own. Maybe there's no way to know except by having someone else come in and disturb your peace, without you asking for it.