When you listen to a beautiful piece of music, read something inspiring or stand in awe in front of a painting that lays all the beauty of existence before your eyes, you imagine the act of creation must be like a religious experience. The skies open and the gift of inspiration shines down on you in all its glory:  you are the chosen vessel of grace.

Let me throw a bucket of ice water on that.

While you work, your creation is just a piece of clay barely holding its shape. When you’re finished with it you have second thoughts. You improve it, you fine tune it, you change it back, you compare it to its other versions; it is a random element in a uniform field of like elements. 

As you wrap up your work, one of the shapes in the pattern stands out. You can’t figure out how or why it’s better than the others, because they all looked the same to you when you molded them.

Later, when that form leaps at you again from the field, there is no doubt in your mind it is the one. You try to relive the thoughts or emotions you experienced when you created it, but you can’t, because there weren’t any. In fact, you don’t remember creating it at all.

I wish the act of writing came with great emotional release or a sense of accomplishment. In fact, it comes with improving your typing speed: the more you write, the faster your fingers get.

Just because you have something to say, that doesn’t mean it emerges wrapped in your soul, or supplants true feelings.

You don’t get to sublimate your frustrations and fears, your writing doesn’t love you back and it won’t comfort you in times of sorrow. The best you can hope for, and that’s a tall order for which you should be grateful, is to run into it after some time has passed and be pleasantly surprised when you read it. You will be humbled when your work stares you back, aloof, silently demanding you leave it alone because it is not yours to mess with anymore.