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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