an artist by any other name

“My creative life is my deepest prayer.”
Sue Monk Kidd

I’ve only just realized, this week, that I’m an artist.

This is the first time I’ve said it.
Except to my husband who insists he’s been telling me this all of my life.

I’m 52.
Shouldn’t this have occurred to me sooner?
Isn’t it something you know all of your life?

I’ve suspected it for a while now, maybe a year or so, and in my defense, my conception of artist is/was limited to my childhood notion of painters, like Picasso.

It was only a decade ago that I admitted that I was a writer.

Maybe there are 12 step programs for this?

I need one.

In the meantime, I read books by writers about the process.

I hate books about process.

I hate process.

But I need a greater understanding of myself, and it turns out that these people seem to think and feel and suffer and celebrate a lot like me.

I feel grateful that they’ve reached out.

Here’s a running list in case you need them too:

Pippi Longstocking
Harriet the Spy
Suzanne Kingsbury
Jennifer Louden
Katrina Kenison
Dani Shapiro
Elizabeth Gilbert
Mary Karr
Jess Weitz
etc. etc. etc.

Add your own in the comments section below?

(written, circa @2016, ha! the year Trump was elected. the year i went through menopause. both of which no doubt awaken artists & advocates.)

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