You know the old adage: Plant an expectation, reap a disappointment.
Elizabeth GilbertRead
I never promised the universe that I would write brilliantly; I only promised the universe that I would write.
Interpretation
The quote emphasizes the importance of the act of writing itself over the pressure to produce perfect work.
In this quote, Elizabeth Gilbert reflects on the commitment she made to her creative process, highlighting that the mere act of creation is valuable, regardless of the quality. By focusing on writing instead of striving for brilliance, she encourages others not to let the fear of imperfection prevent them from pursuing their passions and expressing themselves.
In practice
This quote can be shared during a writing workshop to encourage participants.
You know the old adage: Plant an expectation, reap a disappointment.
Do not apologize for crying. Without this emotion, we are only robots.
I had always been taught that the pursuit of happiness was my natural (even national) birthright. It is the emotional trademark of my culture to seek happiness. Not just any kind of happiness, either, but profound happiness, even soaring happiness. And what could possibly bring a person more soaring happiness than romantic love.
When I tried this morning, after an hour or so of unhappy thinking, to dip back into my meditation, I took a new idea with me: compassion. I asked my heart if it could please infuse my soul with a more generous perspective on my mind's workings. Instead of thinking that I was a failure, could I perhaps accept that I am only a human being--and a normal one, at that?
And when you sense a faint potentiality for happiness after such dark times you must grab onto the ankles of that happiness and not let go until it drags you face-first out of the dirt - this is not selfishness, but obligation. You were given life; it is your duty to find something beautiful within life no matter how slight.
But never again use another person's body or emotions as a scratching post for your own unfulfilling yearnings.
Whenever I write a novel, music just sort of naturally slips in (much like cats do, I suppose).
I have wanted . . . to commit a murder myself. I recognized this as the desire of the artist to express himself! . . . But-incongruous as it may seem to some-I was restrained and hampered by my innate sense of justice. The innocent must not suffer.
I have discovered photography. Now I can kill myself. I have nothing else to learn.
These people live again in print as intensely as when their images were captured on old dry plates of sixty years ago... I am walking in their alleys, standing in their rooms and sheds and workshops, looking in and out of their windows. Any they in turn seem to be aware of me.
If we don't tell our own stories, no one else will.
I was a very observant child. Almost anything could become a song to me.
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