What "Life gets in the way of Art" really means

One of my most recent Tweets whined about how Life was getting in the way of Writing.

In mitigation, I was hormonal and I've had a really horrible week, punctuated by other people's stupidity. Actually, for "week", read "month".

However, let's examine what my whine actually says and means. Why do I feel life gets in the way of art? Is my life not reflected in my art? Is that not what my words are all about?

I think part of the problem of getting on with the nitty gritty of my novel - ie, finishing that Aiming at Amazon book and consulting the editing notes that my lovely friend 'Raven' sent me for the first three chapters, and .. just bloody doing it.

I have had some fairly meaty Life Experience recently, and I am concerned it might cast light onto my novel that reveals it to be a shabby, shallow, immature or dishonest work.

Now, the questions are these:

1. are my feelings a way of avoiding the hard work? Is this another attempt by my fragile and lazy ego to scupper my success (see Jenny's Natural Write blogpost on the Mocca Latte)?

2. what should the extent of the editing process be, in this case? There are two options here - lengthy, in depth, breaking bones and resetting them kind of way; or a healthy exfoliation.

I think I know the answer to number one *grumbles*

The second one bothers me the most. A work of art is like a living thing while we are forming it. But then we complete it, perhaps reshape it a little, powder its nose, comb its hair, pat its bum and send it out into the world to be mauled and adored - is it then unable to grow further for us?

How far should we alter it, in the face of life experience? If we write from the heart, then suddenly our heart sees a different view, should we rewrite to reflect what we now know, or preserve the naivety, innocence and purity of the original?

I am thinking that I need to take a look at the work itself, especially as I now seem to have an editor (Raven); but I am thinking, the purity of the original story should be preserved, whatever I think I know now, in retrospect.

Maybe, like John Fowles' Magus, I will have the guts to rewrite it one day; for now I will have the guts to let it be what it was born as, and watch as it lives in the minds of those who read it, use it, love it, hate it.

When I have checked my spelling, grammar and other bits again, naturally.