The real work happens in the stuff everybody else is throwing out. That’s it. That’s the whole goddamn secret.
Most people file that stuff under “ignore and move on.” They’re right to do that, if they want to stay functional, keep their jobs, not alienate their friends. But if I’m trying to make something that actually cuts, I’m mining that discarded heap like my life depends on it.
You know what I’m talking about. That feeling in your gut at 3:03 AM that you can’t name. The conversation that went wrong in a way that felt right. The shame spiral. The weird obsession. The moment of grace in the parking lot of a strip mall that you can’t explain to anyone without sounding like you’ve lost the plot entirely. Most people, sensible people, they file that stuff away under “ignore” or “suppress” or “Jesus, let’s not go there again.”
But me? If I’m actually trying to make something that matters, I’ve got to go there. I’ve got to dig through it like I’m looking for something you dropped in a dumpster. Because that’s where the truth is hiding, in the stuff that doesn’t fit the narrative, that doesn’t scan on the first read, that makes people uncomfortable at dinner parties.
The world is built on a conspiracy of comfort. We’ve all agreed to pretend that certain things don’t exist, that certain feelings aren’t valid, that the raw unmediated weirdness of being alive should be covered over with nice words and acceptable sentiments. But art, real art, it’s built on betraying that agreement. It’s built on saying “actually, this thing you’re all pretending not to notice? It’s the only thing worth noticing.”
I nurture the discarded stuff because that’s where my actual voice is. Not in the things I’m supposed to care about, but in the things I can’t stop caring about even though I know I should. The obsessions that embarrass me. The beauty I find in places where beauty has no business being. The rage that’s not politically useful. The tenderness toward things that don’t deserve it.
Every worthwhile thing I’ve ever encountered came from someone who refused to be reasonable about what deserved attention. Someone who took the detritus, emotional, intellectual, spiritual, whatever, and said “no, wait, hold on, there’s something here.” While everyone else was moving toward the light, they were rummaging around in the shadows with a flashlight, looking for scraps.
That’s the whole game. Not talent, not genius, not even vision really, just the obstinate, possibly insane willingness to value what the culture has decided is valueless. To build cathedrals out of trash. To treat the shitty moments like they’re treasure maps. To refuse, absolutely refuse, to throw anything away just because everyone else already has.