Well, maybe...
Where was I going with this? Am I just complaining? Distracting myself? Using this frustration as an impetus to write?
I wonder if while slowly chipping away at the marble, Michelangelo ever wanted to smash David into powder. I wonder if Shel Silverstein ever considered quitting. I wonder what the Little Prince would do.
He's probably ask me to draw him a turnip, or some goddamned thing. Then I'd have to grab him by his little lapels and shout:
"Listen here, you little prince. I know you can just fly around all day and visit planets and smell flowers, but some of us have real work to do!"
"Is your job to be angry?" he'd ask. "You're very good at it."
Then I'd feel silly and set him down and say "No, little prince, my job is not to be angry. I make stories and draw them."
"Yes, but what is your job? You said you had work to do."
"That is my job."
"Oh, what an awful job!" he'd say. "I like to tell stories and draw sheep, but I hate jobs!"
"Yeah." I'd say.
"Want to see me draw a turnip?"
"Yeah." I'd say.
