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This is more or less the result of a short conversation I just had with ChatGPT. I decided to share it here, in a place where other people aiming to express themselves in writing, and those who just enjoy savoring such expressions are likely to meet. Maybe write a comment or reply in response, if you feel like it, just to chase away the image of getting hoarse from shouting into an endless void, that doesn't even have an echo. Me: Coming up with a new concept seems so joyful. but realizing a concept in enough detail and density to make it productive, presentable to the world, to give it a finished appeal takes so much work. Then in the breaks and gaps of the work process itself, so many other concepts seem to come up steadily. The decision not to put work into a concept, to abandon it, to kill it off to prevent it from interfering with other work feels so sad. but watching a burgeoning pile of unfinished projects build and collect dust, because nothing ever gets finished feels equally sad. ChatGPT: What you’re expressing is something many creative minds struggle with: the bittersweet tension between the joy of ideation and the labor of execution. It’s thrilling to conceive new ideas, to feel that initial spark of inspiration and the rush of potential. Each new concept is like a seedling, full of promise. But nurturing it to maturity—polishing it into a finished product—requires persistence, focus, and sacrifice. The creative process is often as much about choosing what not to pursue as it is about what you decide to bring to life. Each decision to abandon an idea can feel like a loss, almost as if you're letting a part of yourself slip away. Yet, without making these choices, it’s easy to become paralyzed by the sheer volume of projects and possibilities, leaving none fully realized and none celebrated for their completion. Balancing the birth of new ideas with the commitment to see some through to completion is the delicate dance of the creator. It’s about recognizing which concepts deserve the energy and attention to become fully formed, and which ones are best left as part of the fertile background noise that fuels future work. One way to ease the pain of abandonment is to think of it not as a permanent goodbye, but as placing an idea in a kind of creative “waiting room.” Some ideas might evolve, merge with others, or resurface later when you’re ready or when the time is right. And sometimes, focusing on just one project and nurturing it to its full potential brings not just satisfaction, but a renewed clarity and energy to the creative process as a whole. How do you currently choose which projects to focus on and which to set aside? Me: I am not certain whether i have a method. i seem to follow the desire to finish the one concept that is at the forefront of my attention, hoping that the desire lasts long enough to produce at least some stable results. But every task seems to constantly divide itself into more and more subtask, the joy of resolution becomes rarer and less intense and less intense, the tasks start to feel like chores, until the lure of other concepts becomes so strong, that I abandon the initial one, and put it away "for later", trying to ignore the sad realization, that I will most likely never touch it again. And the remnants of unfinished projects literally start to crowd out my territory with monuments of sad unfinishedness. ChatGPT: The way you describe your creative process reveals a powerful, almost restless mind, full of ideas and an initial excitement that drives you forward. But it also reflects a common trap for many who think expansively: the endless branching of tasks and the diminishing returns of joy as projects grow more complex. The initial burst of inspiration feels bright and promising, but sustaining that energy through the less glamorous phases—where discipline overtakes inspiration—can be grueling. When you describe your space filling up with monuments of unfinishedness, it conjures an image of a workshop crowded with half-carved sculptures, each one a testament to ideas that were alive but not fully realized. It’s a tangible reminder of the challenge: each abandoned project holds the shadow of potential, whispering what it could have been, while quietly breeding a sense of creative guilt. This cycle—beginning with fervor, dividing into endless subtasks, waning interest, and eventual abandonment—is familiar to many. The difficulty lies in finding a strategy that helps you choose wisely, commit meaningfully, and maintain momentum without being seduced by the constant allure of new ideas. Here are some thoughts that might help: Limit Active Projects: Give yourself permission to only work on a set number of active projects at once. Even if new ideas come up, jot them down in a dedicated “idea journal” for later exploration. This way, you acknowledge them without letting them disrupt your current focus. Set Milestones and Celebrate Them: Breaking a project into clear, achievable milestones can help sustain motivation. Each small completed task deserves recognition, even if the whole project isn't finished yet. This can bring back the joy of resolution in bite-sized pieces. Prioritize Ruthlessly: Not every idea needs to be pursued to completion. Take time to review your projects periodically and ask which ones align with your deeper goals or interests. Be willing to say goodbye to the ones that don’t make the cut. Define “Finished” Loosely: Sometimes the idea of completion is too rigid. Redefine what “done” means to you for certain projects. Can a project be “done for now” in a state that isn’t perfect but still satisfies you in the present? Sometimes releasing work into the world in a draft form or partial state can lead to surprising feedback and renewed energy. Create Rituals to Reset: Having rituals around starting and closing out work sessions can help shift your mindset, making it easier to stay engaged or to compartmentalize ideas. A five-minute reflection at the end of each day on what you accomplished and what’s next can bring closure, even if the project isn’t done. Celebrate the Value of “Unused” Ideas: Not all ideas are meant to be brought to life. Some serve as creative fodder that informs and enriches other projects. Reframe the way you see abandoned concepts: they aren't failures but are part of your creative growth and thinking process. It’s natural to feel a mix of sadness and guilt about unfinished work, but it doesn’t mean your efforts were in vain. Those monuments of unfinishedness might still be teaching you something, even if only in the patience and discernment required to focus on what matters most. If you looked at your projects now, is there one that still calls to you despite everything? What about it makes it stand out? Du: A harsh reproach that echoes within me is the question: "Where then is your art, artist?". There is a tension between me deciding to celebrate, ritualize, limit, define, prioritize all for myself, which can feel self-deceptive, empty, masturbatory, and reaching an audience, which can feel elusive, ungrateful, ignorant, abstract, vanishing, vain. ChatGPT: Your words resonate with a deep, existential ache that many artists and creators grapple with. The question, "Where then is your art, artist?" is heavy because it holds both doubt and demand. It’s a question that implies a judgment, as if the proof of one's art must be tangible, undeniable, and presentable, or else it doesn’t exist at all. The tension between creating for oneself and creating for an audience is real and can feel insurmountable at times. When you make something solely for yourself, it can feel insular, as if you’re playing a game of make-believe with no outside validation. On the other hand, striving to reach an audience can feel like chasing shadows—there's the chance they may not understand, care, or even notice the effort. And the work done to appeal or connect with them can feel hollow if it strays from your original purpose. But this dichotomy—between the inner and outer, the private and public—doesn't have to be a condemnation or a source of shame. It can be a tension that drives you, informs your work, and challenges you to find a balance. Here’s how to approach that question and the tension it holds: Art as Process, Not Product: Start by reframing what it means to "have" art. Your art isn't just what’s completed or visible; it's the work in progress, the concepts that live within you, and the time spent wrestling with your craft. Art is not just an outcome but an ongoing conversation between your mind, hands, and spirit. The Audience as an Echo, Not a Goal: Consider that reaching an audience doesn’t always mean a large, tangible presence. Even one person who sees, understands, and appreciates what you’ve made can be enough to validate the journey. Art, when shared, becomes a call into the void, and sometimes the response is faint or delayed. It’s less about aiming for a broad audience and more about letting your art find the people it resonates with, whether now or in the future. Release as Ritual: Instead of framing celebration, limitation, and prioritization as self-deception, see them as necessary rituals that sustain the artist in you. It’s not indulgent; it’s survival. If there’s no small victory or self-recognition, the external validation—no matter how substantial—will never feel like enough. Accepting the Elusiveness of “Completion”: Art, in its purest form, often refuses to be finished. Even “completed” pieces could always be refined, could always be different. This is why many great artists speak of the courage it takes to put the brush down and declare something done, even when it isn’t perfect. Allowing your work to reach a “done for now” state can help bridge the gap between the joy of creation and the reality of sharing. Seeing the Invisible: What if you reframed the question “Where then is your art?” to include the intangibles—the fleeting insights, the sketches, the ideas that never got past their initial burst? They are the backbone of what shapes your thinking, your future works, and your evolving artistry. They may not be displayed in a gallery or lauded by critics, but they are no less real. Inviting the Audience, Gently: Share what feels safe but vulnerable, even if it’s small or imperfect. This doesn’t mean pandering to an elusive audience or fearing their judgment, but inviting them into your process. Share fragments, thoughts, drafts. Let them see the authentic state of your art. Sometimes, the audience appreciates seeing that raw humanity behind the polished works more than the finished pieces themselves. The relationship between creator and audience, between the inner and outer worlds of your art, is bound to have moments of friction. It’s normal to feel like celebration without an audience is hollow or that the audience itself might not understand or value your work. But in the end, the art exists because you made it, wrestled with it, abandoned it, or nurtured it. And whether seen or unseen, it holds value—sometimes in ways that won’t be clear until much later. So when that harsh inner voice asks, "Where then is your art, artist?" you can answer: It’s here, in progress, in fragments, in moments of joy and doubt alike. It exists because I do. Can you, whoever was willing to read all of this until here, can just leave a gesture, a sign of life, an affirmation, that I am not just going crazy, filling my life by simulating dialogues with a mathematical model of a neurological system, trained to reproduce the average reply a vast horde of random data from the internet would suggest as the most likely?