During a lovely coffee with a friend, we discussed the process/craft of writing and the reality that no idea is so perfect as when it’s in your head. It reminded me of William Faulkner (The Sound and The Fury, As I Lay Dying) and his interview in The Paris Review. Here’s what he says:
“In my opinion if I could write all my work again, I am convinced that I would do it better, which is the healthiest condition for an artist. That’s why he keeps on working, trying again; he believes each time that this time he will do it, bring it off. Of course he won’t, which is why this condition is healthy. Once he did it, once he matched the work to the image, the dream, nothing would remain but to cut his throat, jump off the other side of that pinnacle of perfection into suicide…”
Well… Here’s to imperfections, and the hope that we’ll always try to do better…
