“if it doesn’t come bursting out of you in spite of everything, don’t do it. unless it comes unasked out of your heart and your mind and your mouth and your gut, don’t do it.”
― Charles Bukowski
Passion. Defined as a strong and barely controllable emotion. Fire. Defined as a destructive burning of something. Sounds pretty bad now, doesn’t it? But, if you think about it for a while, creation is a destructive process. Or is it the other way around?
But I do wonder, did you find your passion? Are you sure? Is it the thing that controls you? Make you want to jump out of the bed in the morning? The thing you can’t live without?
The artist. A solitary genius. A creator of beauty so sacred that we can’t help but love and fear at the same time.
“He’s a true artist,” we find ourselves saying, and it’s these words put together that conjure up the vision of someone whose inexorable destiny was to create, even at the expense of having to endure a lifetime of humility and frustration and social alienation.
The true artist is often misunderstood. He’s utterly and inconsolably alone with his art. And it is that art, that we all revere, that we’d think of as a bridge, that art is actually a wall. The artist hides behind this wall, refusing to face reality.
But times are changing. The artist has little choice in the matter: he either dies an artist or lives long enough to see himself become a creative entrepreneur.
Sir Anthony Hopkins rehearses his lines some hundred to two hundred times. Ernest Hemingway rewrote the ending to “A Farewell To Arms” some 47 times.
Get the idea?
It takes a huge volume of work to become good at anything. It’s not a God-given talent, it’s not genetics, it’s not the environment. It’s not luck. It’s just practice. It’s just doing the work. Sit at your desk and write. Or draw. Do your thing. Keep doing it. Fail over and over again.
Practice makes perfect.
Quite the cliche, but the thing about cliches is that they’re all true.