On Instant Masterpieces

There are no instant masterpieces. Writing isn’t like making coffee.

First drafts are shit. Always. If yours isn't, you're lying to yourself.

Us mortals, we have to edit ruthlessly. Cut deep. Mercilessly. The scalpel has no heart.

There will be garbage. Mountains of it. Enough to fill libraries on its own.

The truth is hiding in the trash folder. In crumpled pages. In files named, "Never open this again."

The Sistine Chapel? I want to see the sketches Michelangelo tore up, cursing. 

“Game of Thrones"? Show me the crap George wrote when he was drunk and desperate.

Stephen King used rejection slips as wallpaper and Tolkien scribbled in dusty journals for 17 years before he finished the Lord of the Rings.

Rowling. Steinbeck. Picasso. Beethoven. Dickinson. Woolf. The halls of history are crowded with Gods who once felt they were insects.

Because every genius started as a fraud. A wannabe. An idiot with a pencil, a keyboard or a brush.

You want to be an artist? Stop looking at the Sistine Chapel. Start looking at the scaffolding.

That's where the real story is. Not in perfection. It's in the sweat. The doubt. The "fuck this, I'm done" moments at 3 AM.

Art isn't pretty. It's a war. Against yourself. Against mediocrity. Art is nothing but a love letter to failure.

Fall in love with failing. Hard. Often. Spectacularly.

You want to be great? Embrace the shit. Love your ugly first drafts. The stuff that triggers your gag reflex. There's your fuel. There's your ammunition. Use it.

The world doesn't need more critics. It needs artists who care enough to keep going.

Now stop reading this and go write something terrible. It's the only way you'll ever write something great.