Just write it and don't worry if it sucks. You can edit it as much as you want later. And I often find that if you force yourself to write even though it's hard and painful and you're sure every sentence sucks, by the third or fourth page you often get into the flow and can write to whatever is your normal first-draft standard.

I think I don't understand, Susan. The only excellence I can achieve in photography is subjective, or at least in comparison to just my own portfolio.

Actual photographic excellence? Outside my reach. It sounds like you're describing your skating the same way.

And one last mememe post for now.

I feel like I'm trying to explain three separate, though related issues:

1. Excellence: To me, the whole idea of striving for excellence is central to who I am, and I (mostly) set my own standards for it. I know which authors I think are the best, and it's about half objective (e.g. mastery of craft) and half subjective (writing the kind of books I most like to read). And I intend to either attain that level of excellence for myself, or come as close to it as my efforts and talents will take me. The opinions of others matter for this insofar as they're the best measure of whether my writing actually works--of course I know what I'm trying to say, but unless my readers can connect with it, or connect with something in it that resonates with their own experience, it's kinda pointless.

2. Competitiveness: Yes, I'm hella competitive. But writing doesn't really lend itself to being the one-and-only champion of anything. So I'm mostly competing against myself and the goals I've set.

3. Ego-validation: Definitely an issue I need to work on. But, dammit, it's fun to impress people with my writing, just like it's gratifying when the other altos want to sit next to me for sight-reading or someone raves about my chocolate chip pumpkin bread. Only it's even more of a rush, because writing is closer to my soul than singing or cooking.

(I feel like I'm not explaining what I mean by excellence well at all, but right now I'm typing one-handed with a fussy squirmy demanding child on my lap, so it's probably fruitless to try just now.)

hey hey! someone tell me to write! say something inspiring! I'm staring at a page and feeling overwhelmed. Kick my ass!

Write! Allyson! Write, or people who only refer to things like the S/B A/R in the B/R on UPN will get there ahead of you.

(ijs)

Mostly, I'm non-competitive...but once that switch does get flipped, watch out. I try not to do it cause I get scary. Seriously.(And I get crushed about losing once I decide I have to win so that's another reason. )

Write, Allyson, so I can read!

Here are two painting drabbles, at the 11th hour:

Un dimanche après-midi à l'Ile de la Grande Jatte

Pictures were sized to go neatly on the wall over the fireplace or the couch. They were part of the background, like wallpaper. Then there it was. It took up a whole wall. When I walked close, it became colored blobs. As I backed up, the figures resolved. I looked at it from one side and it looked different. I tried sneaking up on it. I watched the light move across the picture. I wanted to run through the museum and see all the paintings and then find more paintings. The anonymous background prints on people's walls now annoyed me.

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I really got a lot out of reading the drabbles the last few weeks, but I just have not been able to do them myself. This week I think it's residual from last week.

And last week, well, what can I say? I guess I'm not ready to stop lying to myself yet. I did try, but it was too much, and I deleted it before it ever left RAM.

But man, some good writing here.

Am I ever gonna be able to talk about writing a book without feeling like I'm playing the grand piano?

It's about being proud that I finished a novel, but vowing that the next one will be better, and honing my craft to make it so.

And that's where we split. I've loved every book I've ever written; I have never felt any desire or impulse or anything else that would make me look at Plainsong or And Then Put Out The Light and say, why yes, this is wonderful, but I can do better. Better than what? I'm a storyteller, it's what I do, it's what makes me sit down and write. Better than what? I genuinely don't get it. Am I supposed to be competing with myself? Telling myself this one's OK, but by God, the next one...

Never happen. I wouldn't write a word if I felt that way. I write because I'm a writer. I sit down and start telling the story because there's a story, it's in me, I'm telling it, the end, just like breathing. It's what I do.

I guess I'll never understand any other way.

edit: ALLYSON! Get your bad self into that chair and write something!