The Imperfection I Possess is a Perfect Love for art.

I have failed; it’s inevitable. I understand the feeling; it’s a cognitive process. Success is a modeled behavior that fits into a box. I, however, do not conform to any one shape. A business management professor once told me that right-brain people must stay free to create without the burden of stress. In response to his suggestion that I am creative, I am equally analytical when the situation demands it. In the center of my mind, I decide what comes next. I am the quintessential starving artist.

What drives me is not the clock ticking down to the completion of something artistic. My uniqueness lies in the imaginative process that lives in my mind, where I fully develop concepts before they reach the physical stage.

Perfection, to me, involves a delicate balancing act: I create something, and the project gradually moves toward its intended purpose. Any imperfect contribution to art is what makes it meaningful. If we ever stop editing a written piece, the art form will lose its ability to imagine how it reads. Edits never truly end. Writing is a soulful space where a love for expression meets structured chaos, and then the entire process subtly spins around in midair until words or images finally appear appealing to a recipient.

I am an odd bird laying colorful eggs. When broken, prepared, these are the ingredients that feed my appetite for nurturing art. Call me crazy, but I do work differently on purpose. If I am to challenge my creative process by what others have achieved, am I truly a creative one? I do not believe others gifted me with talent, and sure, I may admire a style or voice—many, in fact—but to imagine a world where I succeed, love is the magic I brushstroke with.

Go ahead, see my work as imperfect—a complex foundation for creation, but at least I have originality. I understand that advice isn’t cheap in this ever-expanding world where new books come and go, paintings become more abstract, and the typical critic stands atop the pile of creation, aiming to nitpick works of art.

Agree or not, I have no time to worry about perfection, especially when the masters of written literature have used imperfection to publish well-loved stories long before us. Feel my trust—the efforts made to relate, and the instinct that makes me a passionate creator of all types of love.

Read, write, create, and I say do what you like.