Karl Lagerfeld, the designer, said that the reason he works so hard is to prove to others that they’re useless.
He does work hard, too. Always sketching and changing his mind and ordering people around. Yet the people who work for him adore him. They think he’s a genius (he probably is) and treat him accordingly: what he wants he gets.
Fine. Good for him. What I’m really interested in today is his attitude, the one that wants to prove to others that they’re nugatory at best.
Kids’ writers are an amiable bunch, clement and fraternal/sororal. But what if we each had an Inner Karl, a cool killing machine with a very high collar.
All of us could trade war stories about stupid or mean kids’ writers, snotty and fat-headed ones. I don’t mean that. Inner Karl would never show himself in workshop or the faculty lounge or anyplace else. But he would be a guy who could motivate us to work so hard our friends and foes would drop their pens and brushes in despair.
Could you stand to have others brought to their knees by the ruthless beauty of your work?