I am an artist. I have been since the very beginning. When I was forming from just a few cells, I’m sure they asked themselves, “How do we create an artist?”
My art has brought me a lot of pain in life. I’ve hurt people with it, hurt myself with it, been hurt because of it. There are too many times to count when I just tossed all of my work in a fire, dead set on never touching art ever again. But, I fail every time. I don’t think it’s possible for me to ever stop being an artist.
Those times I did stop, it felt like something was wrong. Like my hands were empty. That I was unstable and quick to blow up. Life didn’t feel like my own. I felt like I was faking it. So, I return to creating even if it makes me feel awful. Eventually, though, the awfulness dissipates. And, I’m back to square one. Where I am trapped helplessly by my own identity as an artist.
The things that consume my life are those that fuel this identity. I forget to eat, sleep, and breathe whenever I have a project that requires creation. At the moment, I am burnt out because of my passion project. I am in love with this story and what it’s done for my life. Though, it heavily dictates my emotions and my motivation in everything. It is a huge part of my identity at this point. I think about it constantly and work on it 24/7. I can barely do much else. I struggle to even talk to others, holding back the urge to bring it up every moment I can.
I want to continue with this life of mine to finish this story, and the one after that, and the one after that. Sometimes I am so deathly afraid of dying. The biggest reason? The thought that I’ll never be able to publish something meaningful. It is the most valuable part of myself I have to lose. I think I picture it as a massive injustice to my life if my art never comes to fruition. What is my worth if I didn’t leave anything here before I go? I know I matter, I know I’ve changed some people’s lives drastically. My life does have meaning. But, I am an artist. One that hasn’t yet touched the world in the way he is meant to.
So, I’ll give myself the pity of living life to create. I need to get a job. I need to finish my degree. I need to take care of myself. Even if I do just an average job at all of these things. Plus, I’ll achieve a lot more than solely the ability to work on this project. I need to transition. I need to move out. I need to live my life. I’m sure it’s more than expected that most of “living my life” will be spent cooped up writing, drawing, or coding. Nonetheless, it will be living.
I just have to figure out how to explain to myself that everything I do will help me work on this project. If I get a job, I have the money to support myself while I develop it. I can buy more books, and experience more things to write about. I can get a car and afford to go on dates. Is that demented? To go on a date just to get better at writing one?
Lately, I’ve been going online to read the blogs of artists just as demented as I am. Their unrestrained obsession touches me.
“I worked 12 hours a day for a year. Just lock myself in a room with hot tea, and salami sandwiches… It affected my 2nd marriage and we grew apart.”
“‘Yes, you’re a character; get over it and help me with my prospects.’ Or did he dispatch the manuscript with slightly more aggressive undertones: ‘Screw your memories; here are mine.’“
I have to remember my own doings, the things I’ve done for my “art.” I can’t forget how intensely I studied people. How obsessed I became with that notebook. I deservingly received my consequence. Unfortunately, I feel as though you haven’t reached your potential as an artist until you’ve done something that begged you to stop.
I want to do everything I can to be better at what I do. But, that includes taking advantage of others. Which was the problem in the first place. I want to experience intimacy, not because it sounds nice or anything. Well, that’s a lie. Obviously. But I imagine it would help me write it better. I want to meet people who are nothing like I’ve ever seen before. Not because I want to value them. However, that will happen naturally anyway. I just want to write people better.
But, I’ve learned my lesson. I cannot force another to be my muse. When that used to be my method, the same cycle happened every time. I’d tell them what I was doing, and they’d be honored (thrilled even), and then when I take advantage of my experience with them, they are hurt. I don’t think people realize what it means to be a muse until it’s too late. This is a selfish mistake amateur artists make constantly. I see these stories again and again.
I have matured. People have the right for their lives to be treated respectfully and humanely. Your duty as an artist is to express yourself. Your world. Take your ego and smash it. When others share their rawness with you, the correct response is to appreciate them. Do not use them.
Perhaps I should be more raw in life to better my craft. I get embarrassed so often, curling into a ball mumbling self-hatred. Sometimes I say the wrong name at the worst moments. Sometimes I worry about someone realizing I struggle to move on. Sometimes I remember all the times I showed the world how deranged I am. I apologize to those bed sheets. But all those moments, they’re irreplaceable.
Think of the possibility that all the things I’m ashamed of get out. Say my nudes get posted on Twitter. Say that this article is read by someone who definitely shouldn’t read this article. Those are things that both I and others can learn from. That is valuable.
Fuck it. There are so many times I’ve been hurt so badly or fell in love so deeply. So many mundane days and so many days that were filled with mania. I’ve seen so many awful, traumatic things and so many beautiful things. Why am I embarrassed by any of it? Don’t I want my experiences to last even after I’m dead?
I’m not going to be immune to being hurt. Nor am I going to be unbothered by people disliking me. But, I want to express myself deeper. As a person, I am not meant to be so paranoid or defensive of myself.
I burst with such genuine happiness when my openness matters to someone. You can’t imagine how I feel whenever someone reads my work or sees one of my artworks, and reaches out. They may be touched, feeling so seen and appreciative. Or, they are inspired, asking me for tips on how they can improve themselves. Or, they simply learned something they never even knew existed in life.
I’m very grateful.
I will continue to become more open, and less embarrassed of myself, with every sentence I write.