I am an artist. I can say that confidently now, but that hasn’t always been the case. You see, I decided when I was a kid that I was a writer. It was my dream, and it had been for as long as I can remember. To be quite honest, I never even thought of being anything else. And, aside from math, it was really the only thing I thought I was any good at.
I wouldn’t say that I woke up from my dream or that I gave up on it, but I definitely slipped into some sort of nightmare. What happened was, I stopped writing. I stopped because I simply couldn’t do it anymore. After my mom died, I was too sad for words. I tried to find the right ones, but they were never there … ever. So, naturally, I regressed. I started to draw again — like I did when I was a kid to pass the time.
That’s basically what saved me … art. For a long time, it was the only thing I could turn to, the only way I could express myself. But, still, I never thought of myself as an artist — just a writer with a hobby. I thought of other people as artists, and I admired them for their gift.
But that was then, and this is now.