I want to be an artist. This wish has been so deep and so dark for so long that it's terrifying to say out loud.
But I do.
It's a ridiculous dream. I'm one of those jack-of-all-trades and master-of none kind of girls. I've always lacked attention span, and have flitted from dream to dream -- singing to dancing to cooking to designing. They're all parts, and some fit better than none, but none of them fit quite right. So I'm 38 years old and I want to be good -- really good -- at something I'm not so very good at at all.
I. want to be. An Artist. Whether it makes any sense, whether it ever works, and even if I never figure out what that means.
It feels impossible to make good art, so I will endeavor to make bad art. Lots and lots of it. And post it. And refuse to feel self-conscious.
I've thought about what I would regret if I knew I had little time to live, and this is it. I would regret the lack of trying -- slipping from talent to talent, career to career, avoiding the thing that means most because it make me so very afraid.
I'm told it never gets any easier. That even when you get good, you still feel bad.
I don't care.