With this extremely official document, we hereby authorize ______________________ to make truly dreadful art. And we mean, godawful art. The kind of art where, even as you’re making it, a voice is whispering in your head, Jesus Christ, this is just terrible, isn’t it.
We permit you to write what you don’t know, just for the hell of it. We hereby sanction you to employ every absurd adjective and artery-clogging adverb on earth—in a single sentence. If you’re a sculptor, write poetry that would make a first-grader on Valentine’s Day scoff. If you’re a writer, grab a hunk of clay and…you know…do something with it.
We authorize—nay, command—you to keep going with this spleen-withering drivel. We ask that you pile up these horrible words, these reprehensible artifacts, and sacrifice them daily on the altar of Dear-Lord-What-Was-I-Thinking?
We beg that you embrace this shittiness in all its muddied glory. We insist that you remember: each terrible word is paving a path towards a destination that you cannot even imagine, so high in the clouds is it and so low down are you.
We ask that you take this pledge: “I, ____________________________, admit that I will make shitty art most of the time. In fact, I will make it my explicit goal to produce as much creative crap as I possibly can on the daily. It’s pretty much all that’s in my control, so I’ll give it what I’ve got.”
In other words: You take care of the quantity, darling. We’ll try our hardest to deal with the rest.
The Assembled Patron Saints of Not Giving a F*ck