I’ve been a writer since 1977. Poems, songs, stories grow up within me and I pour them onto paper.
Far too many of my works get re-absorbed, unborn. I’ve been writing and creating for 38 years and except for high school poetry journal, I have yet to be published.
My spiritual Mother came to me in meditation this morning. She told me to fail, to fail a lot, to fail often and publicly. That the terror I have of failing is exactly the same dread and anxiety I feel just before going to run. And running has taught me that that anxiety is just the birth pangs of excitement.
Suppressed creativity is like holding your breath, like swallowing air, holding spiders in your hands, leaping from nothing to nothing.
I’ve been taught that engaging in creative practices is a waste of time. So many jokes about starving art majors and people telling you – without saying as much – that the arts are worthless. They say this because they know that artists can be squeezed.
Oh good grief – that just sends me into a spiral of conspiracy-laced, victimized anger. Which helps me not at all. Because of course people want stuff for free, regardless if it’s a small plastic toy or an A list movie.
Ok, anyway. I aim to fail by means of writing a whole lot, performing all the time, falling flat on my face and getting up again and again and again. Until I die.
Wish me luck.