The Dreaded Creativity Curse

I had an interesting conversation with a fellow writer friend today. Actually, he shared an image with me that had me laughing and thinking, "Yes, that happens to me all the time."

I've often wondered about artists and how they continue to create and make things, constantly worrying themselves to death about how good or bad something is. A million people could think their work is amazing, brilliant, and setting some kind of precedence; however, ask them about it and I'll tell you all they wished they'd done differently now that its done.

I'm guilty of this. I look back on things I wrote last week and think to myself, "I could have done that better. I should have worded this that way." It gets worse the farther I go back; though, there are those singularly rare occasions when I create something and tell myself, "Don't fuck with it. Nope. Not doing it."

Why do we do this to ourselves? Why? Why do we worry and sigh before telling ourselves we'll just make it count in the next project? Better yet, that the next project will be better and you'll do something entirely different with it? Part of you loves what you did before, but you end up partially regretting it like a sullen child who thinks you just didn't have enough time.

That might be a drastic exaggeration, but you get my point.

I think every artist in every category in life, be it a architect, a painter, or a engineer thinks this way because its what drives them to keep going and keep making this amazingly beautiful things we all get to experience. (Which, is pretty much what the comic says...) If artists were entirely satisfied with what they made they'd stop, I think. Some musician would listen to that piece as he played it, finish, and then say, "Well, that's it. I've done it--made the perfect song. No more oboe for me, no sir."

I'm not sure I can imagine my life being unable to create and write; it would be a dismal existence indeed. And really, I'd be lying if I said I wasn't trying to achieve and unachievable perfection with each work I complete. I know I'll never get there, but I bask in that knowledge even as I desire what I can never have. The drive to write the perfect novel urges me to put fingers to keys and to keep enjoying my passion.

Perfection might be unobtainable, but striving for it has its purposes.