The job of an artist isn’t to prove people wrong, though that is sometimes how it feels. On a bad day, an artist walks, writes, and creates with the unshakable feeling that somebody, somewhere, is out there just waiting to take a big shit right on top of her. She drives home from work plotting a story she will write when she gets home. In her mind a banner parades, “I DARE you to underestimate ME!!” She thinks, “These are negative thoughts and I shouldn’t be thinking them. Who is underestimating me, exactly? It could only be myself.”

Writing, unlike acting, or painting, is an essential and most pure expression of the soul. Writing can’t hide a forgotten line with the wave of an actresses flashy dress. And it begs more intellect than an abstract painting does. Writing, it seems, is a direct reflection of ones intellect and philosophies. A writer’s thoughts and assessments of the world at large is transcribed neatly onto the page with no room to hide. A good autobiographical writer cannot hide her truest feelings. Memoirists are like strippers if anything; revealing, little by little, the unique curvature of our very own minds.

If writing weren’t such a simple act, I’d find it a far too complicated thing to continue on doing. I write because all I need is a paper and a pen to do it, I can do it alone, and when I’ve finished I can just run and hide instead of stand waiting for awkwardly for an applause. Writing is a subtle yet powerful art. And although all art it is painful at times (the vulnerability, the fear of rejection), writing is my preferred art. I love writing like I love men. And that shit is Whole. Fucking. Heartedly.

The deeper you love something, the more you fear losing it, and the more vulnerable you become.  I think that vulnerability must be the flip side of love. Having said that, the fact that I’m walking around scared shitless lately must only be an indication that I’m doing something right–that I have something of true value to lose, and that I’m putting myself “out there”.