To write. It's a gift from God. Such a simple, basic thing. One of the first we teach our young. And yet, so few of us ever master the technique. It's said that a picture is worth a 1000 words, but more often than not, the words must come first. Then we paint the picture to sum up the intentions of the author. Or our perceptions of the author's intentions. I feel like I have a treasure of story locked within my burning heart. But, to find the key to release it is proving difficult. Watching television, surfing the 'net, magazines... these seem as key ingredients in keeping those passions and stories locked away. Safely hidden so that no one may suffer the assault of their experience. Am I weak? Scarred? Simply lazy? I like to think not. But the truth is that I must be missing some key element. For some, ideas flow like water and it must be that they should flow this way for all of us. Some though, suffer a different existence. Ideas that gel within us and stick there like cold honey to the bottom of an empty jar. Where did my passion go? Why don't I hate or love or cry or laugh any more? The very best ideas seem born from the extremes this life casts upon us. That being the case, the pursuit of happiness then would be the very antithesis to any of the arts. To truly thrive, I must climb through the mire or soar to new heights. At least that's what this world would have me believe.
I live in a world of sleepers. Walking and dancing and laughing, but asleep nonetheless. Passively letting their lives be dictated to them, drawn and designed to the likes of another being. A creature that would bend men to his will simply for the satisfaction of watching them writhe in agony. THAT'S the mire this dastardly creature would have me believe I have to slog through in order to prime my creative pump. The reality though, is that I simply have to decide what I want to do. Bow? In hand. Arrow? Straight and true. Where will I aim it? What is my goal? For a ship with no port, no wind is the right wind! Many have lived and died with an empty quiver, not from their many shots (true or not) but because their experience left them with little to offer in the way of ammunition. Others though, they die with quivers FULL of amazing concepts. Original. Funny. Sad. Unique in ways we've never considered. And yet, laziness, fear, NAY... DISTRACTION prevented them from ever lofting a shot. They never chose their mark, nor took aim at ANYTHING. They were simply too busy being distracted by, by... by LIFE. Or the semblance that the creature offers to men.
Why do they sleep? More importantly, how can they awake?
My quest. I must find my quest, my desire. For he that pursues is all the richer, whether he gains his quarry or not. The old adage, it's the journey not the destination. So, what destination will I, or HAVE I set? The novel, graphic or literary? Animation? The Bible? Walking or running? Cycling? Philosopy? Drawing? I can't do them all, so what will I choose?
How I can I accomplish anything if I can't get excited about it? Drawing is nice because, when you draw you get to linger with the line. It doesn't have to mean anything. It simply is. It's the interpretation of it that gives it meaning. True, in a consignment case, the meaning is dictated and the artist's responsibility is to produce a meaningful representation of the request. Generally though, in terms of art for arts sake, the line is and has no other obligation. Can the same be said of the written word? The only point of the written word is to communicate.
As Bjork says, there's more to life than this! Always look for the story in what your doing. How about that for a modo? Look for the story.