I am an artist.
At least, I like to think I am. I have the Bachelor’s Degree with a fancy piece of paper describing me as Magna Cum Laude hinting that I’ve applied myself.
My college art professor always told me I would never be taken seriously in the art world – he said I was too “puppies and kittens” because my artistic creations weren’t graphic manifestations of inner turmoil from the demons destroying my tumultuous ravaged soul…or something like that. My art didn’t – and doesn’t – contain parts of my own flesh and blood either. Evidently, my childhood was not dysfunctional enough. Real supportive, huh?
He was wrong.
I am an artist.
I am also a writer.
Both are true art forms.
The fact that I hadn’t suffered for my art – in his eyes – made me a target of the professor’s disdain. My being female didn’t win me any awards in his mind either. But do you think that has stopped me from pursuing what defines me?
A big fat “NO” on that one.
By the way, I had a wonderful childhood. Tragic, huh? All sarcasm aside, we didn’t spend a lot of money on commercially manufactured toys and mass produced goods. To some people, that may sound as though I was deprived.
I was rich. Maybe not in money, but in what really counts. I was raised to use my brain and skills to create what I needed.
So I painted, sculpted, stitched and sewed. I played the violin, piano, and clarinet. I dabbled a little bit in drama. And I wrote stories.
Oh, the stories I wrote as a child! “What an imagination!” my teachers would tell my parents. “What a delight she is to have in class,” they’d say. Well, I don’t know about that, but…whatever. I was probably a handful, never knowing when to shut up.
Now, here I am. All grown up and still don’t know when to shut up.
Am I happy when I get to write, paint, and create? Darn right!
Never let anyone shut down your creative ablilites. Never let the critics tell you to give up. If you have a story to tell, tell it. You’ll be glad that you did.