I'm beginning to understand what "labour of love" really means, when referring to an artistic endeavour. This collection over which I've been labouring for several years is beginning to qualify, methinks: it matters deeply to me that I get it right, that the end product feels real and true and good, and until then it's like being caught up in compulsive behavior. This need to push on and try to finish the book to satisfaction, no matter what. That's the love part: it doesn't matter any more to me whether the book will ever be published, whether anyone else on earth will read it, just that I get it right.
Labour of love = hopeful futility?
Every once in awhile a labour of love gets published to great acclaim, and it seems so obvious, such a perfect ending, well, of course, this was bound to happen when he/she slaved over it obsessively for sixteen years, naturally, the end point is worldly reward. But it's ever so much more likely that's the exception, not the rule. It's ever so much more likely the labour of love lives in a shoebox in the attic instead.
I'm not saying that's a bad thing. Just that the other version makes for a better story. And I like a good story.
Labels: Big Thoughts, writing