I’m coming to this place with [a particular work] where I’ve got to rip the thing up and start anew. Some gets salvaged. It will be for the best. But it’s kind of heartbreaking, too.
I’ve been trying to direct a narrative. I’ve been thinking too much about audience. I’ve been trying too hard to “make” something “good.” I’ve been trying to fit in. I’ve been trying to be different.
I’m understanding, a bit more, what it means to appreciate my own working process.
I have mistakenly labeled my way of telling a story as not acceptable because it originated inside me.
Lately, I’m learning to provide a supportive mirror to my creator self, much the way a loving mother roots on her child to speak and walk and draw, tenderly providing guardrails as their interior world meets the exterior one.