It's an odd sensation when I finish a piece I don't actually like--in the way you might not care for an acquaintance you speak to every day--but I just follow through on what the piece wishes.
I am taking its order. I am its mute listener. In a way, it is an experience of heightened mindfulness. I am indifferent, just a detached person following instructions.
It does not meet my expectations for what a piece should be to cause the thrill of creation, but I don't act on any disappointment. I just register it. No love lost here. I complete the task and stand back from the writing as well as from my urge to act on my critical thoughts.
So who is in charge? Who is operating the production of writing in this moment? And--I never know if this will happen--sometimes after a few months or years, I gain an appreciation for this piece previously worked on with so much ambivalance. What has changed? Everything and nothing because it is a different moment.
No comments:
Post a Comment