DISCLAIMER: this is a totally self-serving piece written off the top of my head to remind myself why I do this, so if you’re expecting a witty, searing, honest piece, forget it. Well, the honest part is right, but that’s about it. You’ve been warned.
I paint. I write.
If it is a good day, and you ask me what I do, I will tell you, “I am an artist,” or “I am a writer.”
If it is a day like today, the answer is very different. “I like to paint.” “I am trying to write a book.”
To most people, these two sets of statements may sound very similar. They aren’t. Really. Most of you know exactly what I am talking about.
On those rare days when I feel happy with where my work is going, I have a soaring confidence; a strong sense of what my work is about and how I am going to take it to the next level. Most of the time, however, I feel like I’m stumbling around in the dark. I wonder why I am attempting something that is so far beyond my capabilities. I feel like a poser, a fake, and it seems like it’s only a matter of time before everyone around me realizes it too.
I wonder how many of us have these moments/days/weeks.What strange magic is it that keeps us going in spite of our obvious (to us) deficiencies? I lick my wounds, vow not to torture myself further. I put my canvas/computer away for a couple of days but something always lures me back to my workroom. In the end, it is the act of creation I find so addictive.
I put my canvas/computer away for a couple of days but something always lures me back to my workroom. In the end, it is the act of creation I find so addictive. When I set aside the thoughts of “what happens next?” and concentrate on the paint on my brush or the words on the page, I am my best self – worry free, content, fulfilled.
That’s real success.