Well, it’s been a few days…or more…but I am back now.
It’s hard being a writer (and an artist). Not hard like risking my life, like police officers and firefighters hard, but hard because there is so much inner conflict involved.
I want to write and paint what is inside me. I have so much to say and show. But on the other hand, I know what I have to say is not important. Sure, everyone is important to someone, and my kids are still young enough to think I’m important for now, but I know I’m not actually important. Writing today especially, I know nothing I have to say is really actually of value.
Value is found in the people who help others. The people who dug through rubble looking for loved ones- their own loved ones or others’ loved ones. Value is found in people giving their time, energy, sweat, maybe even blood for another person. Value is in one person caring about another person, even when that person can’t give them anything in exchange.
So, I know my essays, my poems, my short stories, my drawings, my oils and acrylics, do not really matter. I get it.
It’s also scary because it’s so personal. I know people might hate my work, but my work is not just work. It’s me. When someone hates my art, my words, it’s like they hate me.
Don’t get me wrong- I’m sure there are plenty of people who dislike me even without seeing my work. It’s still scary to put so much of myself out there on display, giving the critics a free ride straight to my heart.
Should I care what they think? Maybe not. Do I care? Unfortunately, yes. Or maybe, fortunately. Maybe that is what makes me human. Maybe that is why I write. Maybe that’s why my kids think I’m important, because I do care.
Anyways, I have a meeting tomorrow regarding one of the novels I am working on. And I am meeting with the awesome Mrs. VanCardo on Tuesday to see if I have the illustrations right for her children’s story. Hopefully the caring comes in handy.
Until next time.
-Amber