I’ll Keep Driving

People often tell me that they admire my persistence. I think it’s probably a nice way of saying “a sane person would have given up a long time ago.” Maybe that’s true. No, there’s no maybe. It is true. Sane people wouldn’t do something for ten years when there was absolutely no indication that they were getting anywhere. It would be like driving your car around and never reaching your destination, all while screaming, “I know it’s right around the corner” the whole time. People would have you committed. And rightfully so.

But I suppose it all depends on the “why” behind doing something. No one would call you crazy if you just loved being behind the wheel. Maybe what tickles your little heart is driving aimlessly in the countryside, smelling the smells and looking at flowers. Whatever blows your skirt up. I think everyone has this idea that whatever you do has to lead to something or be financially viable. We are a capitalistic society. A monetary value is assigned to everything. But what about art?

I write every day. Some people might say I’m wasting my time because I haven’t reached a level of success that society deems necessary for partaking in any activity. I’m doing the equivalent of driving through the countryside looking at flowers. I used to believe that I would become a rich author, writing best-selling books and living the dream life. I envisioned myself sitting in my cabin in my elbow-patched cardigan sweater, typing away as snow fell outside my window. Maybe I don’t believe that anymore. Maybe I don’t need to. It might be dangerous to say that I think society doesn’t really care for artistic people. If there were value to be placed on creative pursuits, the artists and the process wouldn’t be ridiculed. Well, until the artists “make it,” and then they are considered geniuses.

I don’t know if I’ll ever make money from my writing. I have published books. Some people have bought them. But I’m not over here rolling around naked on my living room floor over hundred-dollar bills. Maybe that’s what I should have envisioned. I honestly don’t want to be a “struggling artist.” The thought of suffering through an existence (like Vincent Van Gogh) to then have my work applauded after I’m dead would be the ultimate kick to the crotch. I’m a “love me now or not at all” girl. Maybe that’s why I’m single.

I’m not sure what the point of this is. Maybe it’s nothing more than getting the thoughts off my chest. That’s really what writing is to me. A cathartic process. I do it because I need to, and I don’t know any other way. Would it be nice to be paid (handsomely) for it? Of course, but I would drive myself crazy if I thought I had to be somewhere by now. I’ll keep driving anyway. If you see me go by, just wave and smile, and know I’m not lost.