Hide stuff from yourself. Put the drawings in a drawer. Kill your inner editor. Hire an inner work foreman, one who’s a hard task-master, a veritable slave-driver. Let that task-master crack the whip: “Come on!” “Giddy up!” “Get the lead out!”
Hire yourself an inner Marine Corps Sergeant.
At the same time, lock up your inner editor — your coffee-swilling, criticism-cracking editor — in the hallway broom closet. Don’t let him out till at least after the first afternoon coffee break.
Listen instead to the Sergeant.
“Get down and give me fifty!”
“I can’t hear you!”
[This post is dedicated to the life and memory of Paul Squires of Gingatao, a great poet of the early 21st century.]