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I told the student I’ve known my entire life. I’ve been making art since I was a kid. Writing stories. Crafting books. Making poems. Choreographing dances. Penning lyrics. Making up songs. There was never anything else I wanted or was going to do.
Now how this has all unfolded has been wildly different than I could have ever imagined or envisioned or thought. But the essence of it all, knowing I needed to spend my entire life writing and performing and making art: I’ve known this all along. And when I don’t, my life hurts.
So that epiphany, that my greatest love affair—no matter how many actual human partners or lovers I ever love—will be with my art, rings especially true today.
For weeks, I’ve been having what I am calling an “existential moment” around a series of projects that are all part of a particular writing modality. All things related to these projects and this modality have eaten me alive, many, many times.
This current bout of an “existential moment” regarding said modality has been going on for a few weeks, and arguably came to a head—or a throat—this morning. I cried so hard that my voice hurt, as if I had been silencing myself and am only now allowing myself to speak.
And as I finally got myself to the Q train to head to @ParagraphNY for the day to do a little work, I remembered my love affair epiphany. And then realized that this morning’s weeping was like when you realize this one lover has been your proper lover all along.
I have a lot of content. I’ve been hoarding content for years. But these projects and manuscripts and poems and plays only want to be seen as their whole, holy selves. And when I ignore them, they work hard to remind me that that isn’t how best to show my love. #amwriting
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