Once (just once), I drank bad wine with opinionated men and tried to define art with them. The necessary components—an audience, and intent—they make sense to me but I think the truth of art is: the only failures are the works you don’t create.
Schedules help but they don’t constrain. I am cruel but not strict. All my self-loathing comes after I did not act. I forgive because I don’t want to hate myself.
My dear, make time for what you love—you have no one to resent but yourself. Just the way you like it. Just as you need it.