Any sort of artistry is scary. Oftentimes, our society’s expectations of the tortured, starving artist become a self-fullfilling prophecy. Perhaps that’s why so many young creative minds are discouraged by well-meaning parents wanting to save their children from a life of misery, telling them: “You’ll never make a living off of that,” only to have them fall into the arts anyway as though some capricious hand of destiny were shoving them along their path. A path only made harder by parental disapproval.
Am I afraid? Absolutely. I’ve been working for years on a project with no guarantee of success, no matter how good it is. A disturbing number of artists were only discovered and recognized decades after their deaths. Too late to enjoy the electric surge that is the audience peering through their metaphorical window and glimpsing something amazing, and exclaiming over it.
But I can’t stop. You see, despite my fear, I must continue trying to wedge that window open. Hopefully, my muse will be there for the effort.