Save a few bumps and bruises, my brief emergence from the world of academic writing finds me relatively unscathed. The new literary trek is dull and sterile, but alas, grad school beckons. Between annotations and papers, discussions and essays, emails and presentations, this swift hello is a kept promise to not let the ocean of obligation drown the passion that brought me to its banks.
Amid the waves lately: “If you’re going to do it, do it right.”
Effort and quality – in general, a solid standard by which to live. Until one finds herself in an arguably ill-timed return to higher education.
Geoff’s been begging me to make music with him for years. His guitar, my voice – a clumsy pairing of incompetency in which I’ve heretofore refused to partake, but creative drought at the hands of academic advancement has compelled me to reconsider. A girl needs art, does she not, to preserve the color? Without it, she’ll find herself sitting cross-legged on the living room floor crooning off-key John Rzeznik lyrics while her husband strums unfamiliar chords with a broken credit card and she holds a middle finger to the nemesis: “If you’re going to do it, do it right.”
Because when it comes to art, there’s only do it. Do it right, do it wrong, do it with a half written essay in one hand and a dirty diaper in the other. Do it with a shaky voice, a trembling arm, a crowd of critics spewing pavement at your feet (use it). Do it well, do it poorly, do it somewhere in between, but do it. No perfection in passion, no accuracy in art – only the act itself.
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Godspeed and merry Christmas and if the past six months are any indication of the next half dozen, happy Fourth of July. If you find the time in the busy days ahead, make some art. Tis the season.
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