I want to write something beautiful and tender. Something far, far away from here. Because if I wrote something beautiful, something delicate and lovely, that would be reason enough, wouldn’t it? All my plans come out so clunky, so stuttered and jerky. Like mining granite from the earth, hauling up huge chunks of stone, hoping that they’ll eventually amount to something. When what I meant to do was to stain glass, to tint the warmth of the sun.
Deep within, away from agents, away from editors, away from the grinding futility of life as an artist, I have a vision. The scope widens, and I see myself sitting beside you, happily creating because I want to be like you. I see your smile as I proudly present my work, like the smeared finger-paintings of children. But they are lovely to you, aren’t they? Wouldn’t you put them on the fridge and talk about my brilliance, my potential? Perhaps the finger-paintings of heaven are glorious enough for earth.
I see myself always, like I have so often tried to do, performing to an audience of one; dancing, singing, playing, acting, writing, just for you, just for my greatest friend. For a moment, at least, I think I could be content here with you, creating out of devotion and love for you, feeling the return of your pleasure, taking strength in your joy.
But fear creeps in, overcasting my sunny moment. My hard, gritty desire for success, for respect, for being taken seriously by a world that mocks my ambition. My rebellious drive to laugh at the snide commentators, scoffing that “there’s no money in art, my dear.” My chilly, sinking despair as I watch another great work which I have given my heart’s blood to sits innocuously in my documents folder, gets backed up on the server, and is slowly buried by the shards of unfinished projects.
You told me, you told me to define success as obedience, to leave the world’s response in your hands. The little girl inside cries out to you, begging that in your glory and splendor you recall that I have to live here still, that the world grates against that simplicity. The cynic within says that your hands seem rather idle at the moment. My reason asks with a hint of desperation, “if success is doing as you ask, are you asking me to write?”