My Ribs Are Showing

It seems as if I inadvertently became a starving artist.  The romantic in me has cast away the toil and troubles of conventional work.  I choose to be neither blue nor white collar.  I prefer purple.  My lot in life is to sit home and peck at my computer.  Although I may have to forget the finer things in life, like food and gas money, writing requires great sacrifice.  There is no room for little else when creativity is calling.  I am a martyr for the written word.

NOT!

Being a starving artist is utterly ridiculous.  Who says one cannot be faithful to ones art and have a career, take care of your family, and still be dedicated to art?   A talent for multitasking, a sizable amount of imagination, a gigantic amount of hard work, and a passion for your art that runs deeper than the volcanic blood that circulates through the veins of the earth are the only requirements.

Time management is paramount.  Stealing opportune moments to write is the key.  Like now, I’m writing this blog on a borrowed piece of paper on borrowed time.  Even when it seems like there isn’t an extra minute in the day, I find it because it is important to me.  My dream of informing and entertaining the world is important to me.  My dream of being a bestselling author is important to me.  We all know that when things are truly important, we make time NO MATTER WHAT!

I realize that selling 100 million books is a long shot but we all  gotta have dreams.  The amount may sound ludicrous but as William Butler Yeats said, “But I, being poor, have only my dreams; I have spread my dreams under your feet; tread softly because you tread on my dreams.”  While I dream, I shall not be so poor so I choose to work, hustle, make due, make ends meet, keep food on my table, a roof over my head until my dreams come to fruition.