Artist In Disguise
As I was trying to explain to LCF earlier this evening, I’m having some sort of internal meltdown because I haven’t made anything I can really call my own in quite a while. Having just come back from Han’s and seen for myself her belly getting all puffed up as she suffers and gags on her own ultimate act of creation, I’m tasting my own bile, an acid emptiness rising in my throat. At some point in my mag career, doing my own projects became impossible to coordinate with my work schedule. Or so I told myself. Ideas would press themselves up against the windows of my days, steaming them up with their warm needy breaths like big-eyed orphans until I finally drew the blinds and chased them off, begging them to leave me alone. I guess I ultimately found having ideas too painful, too distracting, and now I’m missing the company of my own excited imagination so much it even hurts to dream.