I watched a documentary the other night about Frank Gehry, the architect. Something he said struck me, though, I confess, evidently not so much that I can remember just what word-for-word. I recall Mr. Gehry speaking of waiting for the one piece of work that would be—my word now—transcendent, that would somehow give meaning to all he had done and would do. He went on to make the point, I think, that such waiting was futile for the artist—an architect certainly being one among other artists—as an artist must keep growing and making new art or else flame out.

As often happens for me, the message that I noticed in that moment was a critical one for me to receive at the time I did. The book interior I started work on recently and wrote about on this blog a week or two ago, still relatively fresh on my mind, had left me with a high that was beginning to diminish. The fact that anything was left of that high, I think, resulted from my not having actually begun the layout much less finished it.

And it’s not that way, you know. Or rather it’s not just one way or the other. Sometimes I do feel as if I am waiting for the one book to come along that will draw out my very best work, something that people might one day remember me for. Other times I just know I am the same person I described in maybe my very first or second piece on this blog—currently lost in the ether along with my archive of older blog pieces, thanks to The Hacking—a “mercenary,” just waiting for the next paying job.

Funny, how it alternates back and forth with me.