I love making things. I can't imagine not birthing new art, music etc in to the world. What must that existence be like? We are tortured by the process of acceptance of our art, but imagine not being able to make it. What a hell that would be.In “On Writing,” Stephen King advises his Dear Readers to kill their darlings. He’s stolen this advice, he knows, but that doesn’t diminish its value. I knew that I was in love with each recent creation in part simply because it was new.
Golly, I have almost the exact opposite affliction. I'm almost NEVER in love with what I create immediately. I will always share it with others, but I'll do so almost only as a way to show that I made something, but not to say that I made something of value. It's only later, after I've had time to decipher whether or not the creation, whether it be poetry or song, stays with me. If it does, I may promote it further or work on it more. But the vast majority of things I make die a quick death. They lived, I made them but I don't care to nurture them.