Art of Feeling Right

From Scribbles to Sparks

My Field Notes are filled with scribbles and fragments that never made it into a finished story. Still, they matter. They hum with the same pulsation I’ve felt at a Bruce Springsteen concert or while listening to Patti Smith—those raw, alive moments that arrive long before perfection does.

What It Means to “Feel Right”

I was struck by the trailer for the upcoming Springsteen documentary, Deliver Me From Nowhere. When Jeremy Allen White, portraying, Springsteen said, “Don’t need to be perfect. I just want it to feel right,” it resonated with me, highlighting that every artist’s journey—be it writing, singing, or painting—relies more on instinct than on certainty.

In the Crowd with Springsteen

I’ve experienced that connection in the crowd at Springsteen concerts—heart thumping, body swaying, voice uniting with others. The music wasn’t flawless, but it was emotional—messy, human, unforgettable. I see flashes of that same energy in my notebooks: proof that what’s rough can still be radiant, that polish can sometimes dull what the soul first heard.

Patti Smith’s Defiance

Patti Smith has always shown me that rawness can be its own kind of grace. She opened her debut album with the line: “Jesus died for somebody’s sins, but not mine.” Defiant, unsettling, liberating. Those words don’t smooth themselves out for anyone. They announce a refusal to be contained, an insistence on shaping one’s own truth.

In her memoir Just Kids, I’ve underlined passage after passage where she wrestles with art, love, and survival. What resonates with me is her deep devotion to the creative process, even when nothing feels finished, even when she and Robert Mapplethorpe were broke, unsure, and searching. It makes me feel less alone in the mess of my own creative practice, surrounded by half-filled notebooks and fragments that might never find their final form.

Because the Night: An Unfinished Song Finds Its Voice

Because the Night came out of a somewhat accidental collaboration. Springsteen had the music but couldn’t find the words. At the urging of producer Jimmy Iovine, he gave the song to Smith, who was in the middle of recording Easter. She took the unfinished piece and made it her own, writing lyrics that captured the rush of lust that finds itself slipping into love.

They never performed it together, as far as I know. But I’ve heard Springsteen sing it in concert, giving the credit back to Smith—a recognition of how her words completed what he couldn’t finish. To me, that moment says something about creativity at its most vibrant: when young artists exchange ideas, when one voice unlocks another, when the audience erupts in excitement. It reminds me that every false start, every half-finished line, and every night that feels wasted has its purpose—each one leading to that spark when a song or story finally comes together. That’s the reward, the release.

Imperfection as Beginning

When I flip back through my Field Notes, I see more false starts than finished pieces. Lines that trail off. Images I never used. Fragments that felt important in the moment but didn’t yet find their place. It can feel like failure, but then I remember Springsteen, circling an unfinished song, and Patti Smith, transforming those same chords into something enduring.

Maybe that’s what art really is: the pursuit of truth — the kind that doesn’t aim for flawlessness, only for being real. Sometimes it takes another artist. Sometimes it just takes the courage to keep writing, to trust that what feels messy today might be the spark that ignites tomorrow.

Springsteen, Smith, my own notebooks—they remind me that imperfection isn’t the end of the story. It’s the start of something real. And when a piece finally connects—whether it’s a song shouted back by thousands in the dark or a single line that meets one reader at the right moment—it reminds me why we keep creating in the first place.

Keep showing up for what feels right.