In a recent email to a formerly long-lost friend I said that one of my leading sources of creative block was an inability to suspend disbelief. Subsequently, I watched this:

and found it a bit inspiring. In particular, there’s a bit near the end (I promise, I don’t mind if you don’t bother; it is over an hour) where he discusses how he feels about making stuff (“stuff,” by the way, has now expanded to include novels) and says that he has, in his old age, become indifferent to the scope of a particular artifact’s success.

Of course, that’s easy for him to say. As he explains in the video, the fact that his career started with earnest and artist-driven indies means that he was able to quit his day job at a level of notoriety that would have not been sufficient for many artists, and for a while he was even fabulously wealthy out of the deal.

But now he’s not, and he doesn’t seem to mind too much. In fact, he still seems playful and frivolous. Like he’s just going to fuck around, and hope for the best when it’s time to move on. I’m pretty sure that this kind of thinking would be a boon to me.

It might seem strange, on the face of it, to focus on fucking around as a way of getting things done, but if the option is feeling defeated by the act of coming up with worthwhile tasks, I’d say there isn’t much question about which option would be (more or less) “right.”

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