I’m a firm believer that trying to pigeonhole yourself
makes you neurotic. From birth, we try to figure out who we are, which usually
boils down to one or two key words that supposedly sum us up as people.
The smart, quiet girl.
The funny, athletic guy.
The weird, outspoken one.
The class clown.
The artist.
The writer.
The thing is, even fictional characters are too complex to
boil down to what are essentially clichés and tropes. You’re not a trope, and
neither am I.
When I graduated from high school, I panicked. I thought I’d have
to “choose” my future. All I could think of were those Choose Your Own
Adventure books and how, without fail, I always died. A lot.
I tried vocal performance. I tried acting. I tried writing
and photography. I was even reasonably okay at all of them. But again, you can’t
be all things, so you must choose. I chose photography and went to an
expensive commercial art school and learned everything I needed to know to be a
photographer.
And I’m not happy.
My problem is that I like to create the weird things in my head. I don't WANT to be a commercial photographer. I want to live
in the woods and run on coffee, writing books and making art and generally doing
things that make me happy—not things that stress me out.
Which brought me to a scary realization; I’m not a
photographer. Not really.
I’m an artist. A doer. A maker, a weirdo, a maker of images, and a writer of imaginary things. And I’m so much more than that. So are you.
This blog isn’t about me, though. It’s about writing and art and books
and coffee addictions and causes.
Sure, these posts are basically my
ridiculous outlook on life. But I don't learn anything from my outlook. I want to interview artists and writers. If I'm ever fortunate enough to get followers, I want us all to share and discuss the things that make art so wonderful and encompassing... because we are all dreamers of dreams and makers of
things.
(Yeah, that last bit was cheesy. There will be a great deal of cheese, too.)
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