Time is Not the Enemy

I thought it was understood. It has long been my contention that everyone goes through it, either body slammed at the outset and never rising from the canvas, stumbling through hoping for that one sparkling moment of pure cosmic luck or preserving, eventually coming out the other end as successful.

Yes, it is the tunnel of doubt. Every artist everywhere knows it. In the history of art, literature and music, along with all their marvelous offshoots, there has never lived an actor who at one point of their personal trajectory, did not grapple with the question of worthiness.

Am I good enough? Can I do it? What happens if I fail? Should I quit my day job? What if initial reviews are negative? Will my dog still love me even if everyone else says I have fleas?

We are sitting on the deck enjoying another perfect summer late afternoon. It is hot. The sun is glimmering across the water as liquid diamonds might. The sounds are of kids and seagulls laughing. Summertime and the living is easy.

We have been exchanging notes on art, photography, writers and writing and the associated crafts of each. She asks about the screenplay and I provide an update saying, as exposition, that I remain turbocharged by the story and anxious to push it along.

The conversation shifts to the idea of every characters fatal flaw, the hamartia each hero must overcome in order to create both the drama necessary for a worthy confrontation and a satisfactory conclusion. I tell her mine.

I must, and this is an absolute no-questions-asked requirement, research the heck out of my topic. That means the background, history, connectivity, tangential detail and both historical relevance and accuracy. I say this because, in tipping my hand, I do not possess the depth of information necessary to write free-form stream of consciousness prose. I am no Hemingway, Fitzgerald, Kerouac or Allen, the literal prodigies of the craft. It has been reported that Woody Allen was writing for fifteen hours a day when he was fifteen. The legend of On The Road has Jack at his typewriter for three straight weeks knocking out his seminal work on the beat generation. THREE WEEKS.

I don’t have the talent, patience or depth of understanding to sit and script for thee hours.

So research fills the void. Cram the facts. Fill the cookie jar. Preform the due diligence. Prepare.

We sip chilled fermented fruit and agree. Yes, there is that. But without the base training, the understanding of the elements of design, the structure of complex abstracts, and a formal grasp of accepted forms, styles and arrangements, we are, one is, riffing on the jam, noodling. There needs to be some (the more the better)  structure and continual, focused progress.

We use words for effect. Chord progressions keep us from cacophony. Colors are primary or secondary. Photos and video are either in crisp focus or not.

And an artist, in daily struggle or present moment bliss, faces the fact that in order for he or she to come out the lighted end of the tunnel of doubt, a history of dedicated practice on the chosen path is a prerequisite. We learn, we practice. We grow, we practice. We master, we practice. This might take a while, perhaps even a lifetime.

But time is not the enemy. Doubt is.