The challenge is the goal.

I was thinking about this: the way the pursuit of a craft starts off with one goal, but that goal over time changes to something else. A goal you might not even have expected at the start.

I spent the better part of the 1990s as a guitar builder. It’s a skilled craft, and I’ll be the first to admit I hardly plumbed the depths of luthiery as far as I might have, if I’d kept at it.

The reason I got involved with it in the first place was because I loved music. I loved electric guitars and acoustic guitars. So when I’d reached the point in my life where I didn’t know what I wanted to do career-wise, when nothing satisfied that I stumbled into, I sat back and realized that I love music and guitars: and somebody builds them somehow. So I went out to Phoenix, Arizona to the Roberto-Venn School of Luthiery and I spent five months doing twelve-hour days introducing myself to the craft of instrument making.

And from there I turned that into working at two different genius guitar companies. At first, what motivated me was just the coolness of it. I was building guitars! Every day I won, compared to everybody else I knew. I learned what I needed to, and I did all the things I needed to do — practiced and focused and honed the skills I was using. But as the years went by, I understood more about the unique facets of the craft. By the time I was voicing the tops of the acoustic guitars at the Santa Cruz Guitar Company, I’d developed a deeper appreciation. Sharpening a chisel the right way, using wet stones. Flexing pieces of spruce bracing, sanding Adirondack or German spruce, shaping it, tapping it, listening. Fashioning the braces, carving them, listening, carving more, listening more, taking away just enough to bring out the voice of a particular set of wood.

In the finish sanding, working my way up through the grits, letting the depth of the figuring of the mahogany or the maple or the Indian or Brazilian rosewood shine through and come to life, every minor scratch sanded away. It was an art, how much all those elements contributed to a beautiful instrument.

It’s much the same with the craft of writing. I started writing just because I loved books. I loved reading. And I thought: someone has to make these. As with luthiery, when I started out, I didn’t even know what I didn’t know. But the rewards of pursuing a craft year after year reveal themselves. That’s where the joy is. That pursuit of instrument making honed throughout my 20s helped me understand how to open up the craft of writing.

And while I’m working with words when it comes to my books — and not wood, chisels, scrapers, and glue — there’s a lot more similarity than you might guess. Testing an idea, listening to see if it has that tone. The characters, the dialogue, the themes, settings, all in play. Removing just enough for the right balance, unifying all these disparate elements to create a single piece of art. One that’s put together well enough that a reader can play it with their imagination and have a satisfying encounter.

It's the challenge that keeps me going. Because the heart of any craft is forever elusive. I try to make each book the best I can, and I always think I can do it better.

My goals — no matter how refined my craft has gotten over these past 2 1/2 decades — still exceeds my reach. There’s always a better idea, a smoother turn of phrase, the more resonant palette of emotions I can wring out of my characters.

That’s the challenge. Getting better at the craft is how I try to conquer myself.

A different goal than I started out with, but one that’s far more meaningful.