25 December 2011

On Christmas Day

I am stuck.
There are things on my mind that I want to write about but only if I can write well--flawless, clear, strong, beautiful.  Without that assurance, I have, for months now, been unwilling to show up here -- or anywhere else -- and put "pen to paper." Unwilling = afraid.

Today, the discrepancy between my fear and the fearless creativity I encourage in my students (what students?  Just one of the many news items I am not writing about...) is bothersome. Today I'm talking to myself the way I talk to the kids:  Perfection isn't real. Imperfection is more interesting and more fun. Often it takes doing a thing badly for awhile to get good at it. Process matters more than product. Blah blah.

I've developed an appetite for flattery and compliments. Not just for the blog but for everything. I've come to believe that I'm good at everything I do. Exceptional, in fact. I think I'm smart and fluent and perceptive and wise. 

Ego at work.

I want more space.  Space to fail.  To flounder.  To figure shit out. 

Luckily that space is free of cost and I don't have to ask permission. 

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