I think I mentioned it in my comments before, got a thing on my mind sometimes about art.  Mostly literary art, but could apply elsewhere as well.  A scene or a verse or a passage within a larger work should be internally consistent and smooth as if it was exhaled in a single breath.  Franz Kafka, Edgar Allan Poe, Angela Carter, Joyce Carol Oates, all very different but unified by this one thing, at their best.  There are a lot of other qualities good writing can possess; this isn’t everything.  But it’s something I’d like to make sure I’m achieving, whenever I commit to saying this is it, this is the final draft.

I aspire to that, but do I have the willpower?  Centennial Hills is an overly fancy first draft, the words carefully considered one time, perhaps edited in my head a little too much before they hit the page.  This gives me license to say fuck it, good enough for a blog post, good enough for posterity.

The egregious lack of editing in modern publishing also excuses me.  What’s worse, my shit, or the thousandth romantasy about a modern gal who finds out a couple of beevy monsters wanna bone down with her because she’s the most specialest?

I dunno.  I just think, when I have the opportunity to make art happen, maybe I should be making it to the highest possible standard.  But it seems like a lot of effort, making your art look effortlessly perfect.  Maybe later…

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