Over these past two years, I’ve spent considerable time contemplating this ‘mark’ I’m supposed to be hitting, and I keep coming up empty. I’ve seen this word pop up a few times and it never fails to boggle my mind. Perhaps this is the reason why artists make some of the worst critics for the creative works of their own hands. As I sit back and allow my memory to float over various tales I have drafted — some published, many idling away on my flash drive — I come up dry every time I try to pin point this exact mark that I should be striving for. Should I be in tune with the harmony driving the story or worried about if the characters have consummated their lusts fast enough to satisfy the roaming eyes floating across the screen?
Commercialism demands that an artist hit a specific peak to be considered successful; creativity, however, allows for growing pains and whole-hearted blunders…There’s deep meaning behind that badge of honor starving artist. After much thought — plus three websites, an abandoned tweeting account, and two blogs later — I’ve decided that I’m going to do my best never to aim for this elite mark, which dictates both the erratic pace and stifled visionary wellspring of our generational pop culture. Though I can’t say I am guiltless of trying to chase after this deceptive goal, which always seemed so far beyond my efforts, I have come to realize the soul-pinching effects of my error. I’d rather allow the burgeoning and sometimes off-beat creativity dripping from my fingertips and the shades of colorful fantasy swimming through my mind guide my romantic tales than to willingly destroy the true author budding inside of me in vain pursuit of that ever-ellusive…mark.