When I sit down and I start to write, I take a secret thrill in what I’m doing. Because this is forbidden territory. This is verboten. Everyone has built a fence of expectation around what I’m doing and yet, here I am, having climbed the fence. I’m making art and the world doesn’t want me to make art. I’m in a secret garden stealing your vegetables. I’m traipsing about someone’s home in the dark while they sleep. I’m mixing potions. I’m making monsters. I’m tap-dancing on the edge of a cliff, and the world can watch me kick off my shoes, pirouette, and lift both middle fingers in the air with a smugly self-satisfied look on my big beardo face.
Let me distill this down for you:
How do I survive my anxiety and the business and the expectations and still make art?
The answer may surprise you, offend you, inspire you. One thing’s for sure: it’s hard to art. However, the talented don’t have any say in the matter.
We create for the same reason we breathe–we don’t have a choice.
And the joy is indescribable.