I've been holding my breath and hiding my plans for three years since the lizard part of my brain has been screaming at me to hide. If they knew they would stop me. My Evil plan a la Hugh MacDonald would be thwarted. To be successful in art and literature is to take the easy way out. That is the family credo anyway.
I haven't paid enough dues. I haven't suffered enough. It all comes too easy for me.I guess growing up within a farm family means that work is sweat. Sweat speaks volumes (literally) of your dedication, commitment and strength. I don't sweat. Oh I sweat a lot. It's gross. I don't like it. So I don't do it. That doesn't mean that I don't work. Every artist will tell you the struggle to discipline themselves is work. Especially when they hit a rough patch. But you have to muscle through it. Facing rejection and carrying on is work. Every writer will tell you that wrangling unruly characters is work. Sometimes the author wins. Sometimes the characters win. But unless you are unscrewing a particularly stubborn lid on a jar of gesso... or printing outdoors in the heat there is very little sweating involved in what I do.
So I hid my plans. I haven't published my thoughts on my plans. I've spoken them only in hushed tones to one or two people. I am waiting to break out with my plan. And it is just a few weeks away.
I wonder. Why is it okay for my cousins David (one each on maternal and paternal side), classmates Eileen, Jennifer and those that I do not know about yet/remember to be artists/writers? But it is not okay for me?
There is no wondering. It is okay for me to be an artist. And I am going to be an artist. They can't stop me. It is too late.