Yes, I have one of those still. I’m not always at a computer. In fact, lately I’ve been sort of avoiding mine, hence not so many updates recently.
Today I sat down at lunch with my paper journal and Tori Amos’s American Doll Posse playing in my earbuds, and this little nugget ran out onto the page:
“I feel like I stand outside a building, looking in on the artists–writers, painters, illustrators, dancers, poets, musicians, singers, songwriters, healers, photographers, et al.–and long so much to be a part of them. I don’t think I”m good enough to open the door and walk in among them, so I just watch and wish and practically worship them. That’s sad, really, but I’m so frozen by the refrains of ‘not good enough’ and ‘but that won’t make you a living!’ (Even though most of those I watch and worship do make a living at it, or at least a partial living.) Where the hell does it come from?
“Yes, my lovely rain-on-your-parade, ‘practical’ family, but that’s not all. I obviously agree with them. Them, and some of my former teachers and society in general, who all think that the arts should be relegated to hobbies, as, in general, artists by profession starve like the stereotypes. (Nothing of the kind is, in fact, true.)
“True, there are a smaller number of artists who make a living solely from their art, but aren’t there also a smaller number of people willing to try doing that? Other chickens like me, circling the Artist House and longingly staring in like hungry ghosts?”
I think I may be getting closer to figuring out what my raison d’etre is and should be. Perhaps, perhaps.