So far, my life's creative output has fallen short of my expectations. Lately I've been reflecting on the possibility that I may have allowed myself to be seduced by some romantic idea of artistic inspiration, like waiting for a muse (or something) to visit me. As I waited for inspiration, valuable time was lost. Sound at all familiar to anyone?
In an article I read years ago, the late John Updike said he completed at least one page every day, meaning at the end of each year he had over 300 pages written - a book. So does that kind of discipline trump the notion of a muse? Some would argue (I don't agree) that Updike's writing is cold or cerebral. Did the same discipline that helped him produce such a staggering output also make his output clinical?
Since mid-March I've often thought of Updike's approach as I attempt to post something every day on this blog. It's been very humbling; I've missed several days and this is not even close to a page. And, I have no illusions about my "reach" vs. someone of Updike's talents, stature & discipline. On the other hand, I'm feeling a great deal better about my creative output (sic) and I'm no longer as seduced by the muse.