Just add words

My manager gifted me with a bookstore gift card for the holiday, and this past weekend I decided to go and see what I could buy. I spent very little time researching my options and cursed myself later for my dereliction. I walked circles around the store, gift card in hand, like maybe it was a dowsing rod or other divination tool. Like it would vibrate when I was near the item I sought. I had aspirations, and each was quickly dashed as it bubbled up into my mind. I saw the music section in the back and thought about all the music I wish I had unlimited access to. Then I realized I don't own a CD player. I thought that surely there must be some mechanism to purchase mp3s and transfer them to my phone or a cloud account or... and then I was in the toys and games section. I thought about something to put on my desk, a puzzle I could articulate that would stimulate my mind while winding away the down hours. But I had never heard of any of the games; I was suspicious of the promises on the back ending in exclamation points. Then I was in the science fiction and fantasy section, remembering the time when one of my books was on the shelf. Right next to Glen Cook. I fell into nostalgia touring all the covers. That's the kind of cover I want, I thought to myself. The gift card was silent and still, forgotten in my hand.

"This cover is officially one of the covers that has pushed me to new levels." That was my cover artist yesterday after coming back to me in response to yet another series of alterations I requested. I think I might be difficult to work with. My sequential thoughts with almost any creative project I'm involved with are that of the product being good or good enough, and then, every time, about whether or not good is good enough. Despite evidence to the contrary, I very often conclude that a lack of success is a direct result of the work not having nearly enough sweat and blood on it. I always realize later that I could've pushed more. I could've tried harder. It's the kind of thought that haunts the loudest. "This is good." That was also my cover artist, commenting on how his being pushed was beneficial. I felt relieved when I read the sentences one after the other. And then I saw the cover.

I had this strange, elastic moment. I wanted to tell him it was great. I wanted to tell him it was perfect. That's how happy I was. Then my thoughts snapped backward like a rubber band. Was it perfect? Or rather, did I want to take from him how good he could be if he kept working? What I decided on was that his work, when he applied himself, deserved to be on the shelf along with all the other artists I had seen in the store.

I am working on enjoying this evolution. In the back of my mind, it is my hope that every cover will be better, more amazing, and as people read the stories they will become more immersed, more invested. They'll tell others, and it will spread. The second thought I have is that for marketability, the reverse should be true. Get them hooked on something transcendent, then roll out the less amazing fare. But I'm also coming to understand that I may always have that second thought. That things will never be as good as I want them to be.

I wonder if this condition of mine is useful, if it has any worth for an ultimate good. I wonder if maybe I should've considered a coffee table book about being happy. Maybe a coffee table, first. Baby steps.