on avoiding completion, ever

I should not be so afraid of imperfect work — even work I myself think of as imperfect. I should only be “afraid” of leaving NO work. Perfect/imperfect — this is up to the gods — or whatever it is that arranges the constellation of times and sympathies in which judgments are forged. Times and sympathies change. So sometimes do judgments. The only thing I control is whether or not my work gets made. My only charge is to be sure the work is there at all, to witness.

Like the pyroclastic flow that rushed down from Vesuvius to engulf the citizens of Pompeii, the pencil lead sifts relentlessly down through analytic thought, and settles in every crease of the Story idea, immobilizing its sense for careful inspection.

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