Once upon a time there was a prince who could create beautiful things, and he did, regularly, and his art was wonderful to behold.
Then one day he lost his ability. He fell depressed as he felt his self-worth plummet to nothing. He fell to drink and sloth and did not try to recover.
I don’t know where in the story we are now. The prince may still be low, but is attempting to create beauty once again. He fails, more often than not, but sees a glimmer of hope every once in a while. This is incredibly moving to him, although it’s never good enough. Some say he’s greedy; he just sees himself as a perfectionist. Always want more, the athletes say. And how is that greedy? That’s just striving for a better tomorrow.
There are many sides to this story and argument, and I don’t have the time or effort to communicate them all.
I don’t want to get breain dmg’ed from the alcohol, though. So I should stop.
And I’ll continue to try to make beautiful things.
I don’t know if I want to do this literary magazine anymore. It feels like a burden and a chore. No one, we don’t have an audience. Some people who get published in it are enthused, but we just don’t have an audience. I don’t know. I need to figure out how to proliferate.