I read nearly anything, but especially Hermann Melville, Joan Didion, E.B. White or Virginia Woolf, and I am urgently compelled to be a writer.
What if being a writer is my true identity, and all this time I've just been distracting myself from myself? (Then, write and see if the universe opens her arms.)
I go to a museum of contemporary art, and I am compelled to be an artist.
What if I completed every visual art idea I've ever written down in my little black book of ideas? (Perhaps that's all there is to being an artist: doing, making. Perhaps it really is as simple as that.)
I see a film or a good TV show and I am struck with an overwhelming desire to be an actor.
What if acting can be both my strongest dream and an intellectual pursuit? What if I can pursue acting and feel that I am doing something of worth? (Maybe that is the motherlode of fulfillment.)
What if I can stop doubting whether all of my interests are both creatively and intellectually estimable, whether I am living up to my own potential, and whether all of my dreams can be achieved in one life? Can I be a writer, an actor, and an artist? (Word on the streets is that to succeed at any one craft, a person must singularly devote themselves to it.) Can I get published, book a role, and have a gallery show? Will I ever get anything done? Is there time?
And what of family, travel, relationships, security, the marks of a life well lived? What of living?
What of living?
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1 comment:
Strange how your entry parallels my thoughts over the past couple days. Sunday I got a strong urge to write (but didn't because I was in the middle of a really good chapter in my book) then yesterday I was overcome with worry that there isn't enough time. This is my one shot at life and sometimes I doubt my direction. Beautifully written blog, it makes me miss you terribly :)
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