I want to be surrounded by art.
I want to make art.
I want art to ooze out of me. Too much?
I want to create.
I want to do all of this while simultaneously chronicling the entire thing.
I want to force myself to write. Why?
It feels like a lifetime ago, largely because I'm constantly reminding my coworkers that I can't edit articles to save my life, but writing used to be my life. I wrote my first book in middle school, a tedious little novel that got me hooked until college. In high school I took creative writing classes, published many of my fiction short stories, was president of the Creative Writing club, and even won in state competitions. Even in my first semester of college there was still some juice left in me. I went on to win honorable mention in a statewide collegiate poetry contest. And I've had a number of blogs in the past: a natural occurrence once Microsoft Word replaced diaries.
But I knew the spark was gone. It was as if someone had taken my ability to express myself. In part, I blame my trying to get ahead in school and use the duel enrollment credits from high school English class to not take two semesters of English. By the time first semester of sophomore year came around I was all dried up. But it was a number of factors. It wasn't that I couldn't write– I just didn't have anything to say.
I can't say that I'm all that regretful of having lost that initial love for writing since it led way to a very special side of me that I never thought I'd be able to tap into.
Art is an elusive lover.
Art is quiet and loud, messy and compulsive.
Art is me stressing over nothing and forgetting everything.
Art makes me angry for wanting to make more of it and scared when I can’t.
Artist is what my younger self wanted to be.
Artist is a difficult title to achieve.
I make art because nothing rattles and calms my inner self more than having a paintbrush in my hand.