I don’t think there will ever be a “safe place” or a “safe time” for as long as I’m an artist. I think that has been one of my biggest realisations.

I’ll always get blocks, I’ll stumble over something. My head will be in a funk, I’ll feel useless and scared. Sometimes this won’t seem worth it, it’ll seem too much. I’ll feel less than or just plain stupid. That’s life.

I know, however, that I’ll also feel amazing, more alive than anything, accomplished, happy, at peace, flip flop flyin’.

There’s no guarantee to anything, ever. All you can do is make efforts. I’m learning how to make mine despite the constant company of fear.

It’s funny, but people always want proof. Proof that I’m a writer, or an artist, or that I’m happy or that I’m sad. Why can’t the fact that I just am be enough? Because it is enough for me.

My fear is that because I have no valid proof for some, that what I say or what I do is discounted. I’m not credible. Who am I to be telling people to chase a dream if I haven’t had proof of success? I feel like sometimes that might discourage people from wanting to jump ship and try something they’ve always wanted to try.

I think one thing I’ve learned from all of this though, is that as an artist or writer, you don’t ever feel 100% accomplished, finished, secure, or that feeling of “I’ve made it and now it’s enough.” All the artists that I’ve ever talked to, have echoed this. Each day can be scary or wonderful. The only difference is, you feel better about it all.

Last night, after I wrote the last entry, I sat alone in my living room, lighted by only one candle. And I asked myself to be real and truthful and let whatever had to come out, come out.

I wasn’t going to judge it, I wasn’t going to try to write it or share it. I’d just have that moment to myself, and let it all be real.

The moment lasted for over an hour. Tears had come down my face, my nose was crinkled up and I cringed more than a few times. I think I swore internally for a good minute or two. My body was tense and unsure.

But at the end of it, my mind was alive and a smile was on my face.

I discovered what my block had been – it was me. It was me not being real or truthful with my writing.

In my day to day world, I’m real. I’m not fake, I don’t try, I don’t pretend. That is one trait that so many people, including myself, tend to admire about me. But the problem is, when I wrote, I lost that. I lost myself.

I tried to do the “good writing”, and it wasn’t real. It wasn’t me. And that truly bothered me.

The other block was that I had claimed to be only a writer, and I’m not. Secretly, I’ve wanted to call myself an artist. However, I never acted out on it. And it bothered me to declare myself something, but not be it. Again, I felt I wasn’t being real.

So, today, I signed up for an art class to learn what I so desperately want to learn. I signed up to volunteer at the art museum so that I’m involved with what I love but also doing something that I’m good at. After that, something felt lifted in me. It felt like the gates had open and I could run free again.

With that, I wrote today. I wrote those articles I’ve been trying to write but haven’t been able to. They literally wrote themselves, I just moved my fingers on the keyboard. And when I wrote, my emotions came out that lead me to know that finally, I was writing from the heart. I was keeping it real.

Sometimes, when things aren’t going right, or you’re confused or alone, you just want someone to come in and fix it. You don’t want to be responsible for it, you don’t want to admit that perhaps, you’re the problem. I know that’s how I felt.

But I knew that I had to look at myself and try to figure out what was going on here, because it’s my job to reflect on what I see, and if I can’t reflect on myself, then how could I ever write?

I feel so much better now. I feel like I can move forward. I know this isn’t the last thing I’ll learn and that it won’t all be easy from here, but that’s ok. Writing is like life; it’s a process. There are days when you kick ass at it and some days, not so much. And strangely, I wouldn’t have it any other way.

I have the feeling that I am more than what I currently am. The only problem is that right now, I just don’t know how to be more.

Part of my problem is the whole linear thing. Currently, I only write a certain way, colour a certain way, paint a certain way, dress a certain way, and decorate a certain way. Slowly that’s changing, but for the main part all that I do is linear and pretty. All that I do makes sense, is practical and acceptable. The way I do things currently is a way that I hate. The problem is I don’t know how to break free of it.

That’s where my frustration lies, because I know I am not linear.

It wasn’t until my 5th year of school, that horrid teacher Ms. Newell started the end of my creativity and free flow thinking. My father and I had a game where he’d write down a letter and then I’d draw one thing on that letter, then he’d draw one thing on the letter and so on until we had a picture. One of my favourite drawings was the “B” bird.

At school I drew it for an art competition. It was wild, colourful, and creative. I can still, till this day, see it in my mind perfectly. It was so vivid, so beautiful and so stunning, that even now I am in awe of what I did.

However, Ms. Newell wasn’t. She took it and in front of the class, tore it up.

“This,” she said, “is a perfect example of what you should not do. There are rules, there are guidelines. If you want to win you have to stay within them. You can’t do “creative.”

From that moment on, everything I’ve done has been pretty, linear, appealing and nice. Even this entry is nice when all I want to do is scream and pout out my heart. All I want to do is pound my fists into the air and shout, “fuck a bunch of nice!” But I don’t. Instead I just write calmly and put together because that’s more appealing than what I have to say. I try to stay within the guidelines.

I don’t want to do that anymore. I don’t want to do pretty or perfect or follow guidelines or be afraid of my own voice. I want to break free, go crazy, and paint like mad. I want to be able to express all that I feel and see with something more than pretty, nice words. I want to burst my own mould.

What I want to do is more than I currently know how to do. I feel like I need someone to come here, hold my hand, and show me how to do art. Someone to tell me that writing isn’t always pretty and you can say whatever you want to say. Someone to tell me that colour is fantastic and that matching socks aren’t. Someone to give me some direction, some encouragement, show me something new, give me some ideas or inspiration, and help me get past myself. Even just a simple kick in the ass would be brilliant right about now.

I’m a writer; I have no doubts about that. But I really think there’s more to me than what I currently am. I think, I am an artist. I just have to figure out how.

Someone asked me recently if I’d written much.

“Oh yeah!” I said. “I’ve written 3 novels, 52 magazine articles, 2 short stories and some liner notes.” Unfortunately, it’s all still in my head and not down on paper.

It’s not that I don’t want to write it all; I do. But lately, I’ve just had no motivation despite the fact that several deadlines are looming. Deadlines I have to make if I want to keep my momentum and start my way into being published. I don’t want to let these opportunities go by, but slowly I am.

I tried to look at all the reasons why I’m procrastinating or simply just not doing this. I came up with a lot of really good psychological garb but I think the main fact is that I’ve just run out of steam.

That’s the hard thing about working for yourself or working at home is learning time management or being disciplined, at least for me. I worked like mad for a few weeks and then I wore myself out. My brain doesn’t even want to write a grocery list at this point let alone an 800-word article.

Now, I’m the boss. I decide when I work and how I work and how long I will work for. Sometimes this is a good thing as I work myself to death and produce some fabulous work, other times, I’m far to easy on myself and I let myself get away with too much, like now. I feel like I need some one to whip my arse into shape. I wonder if there’s anyone for hire?

I know it comes down to me just doing the job I need to do, but it’s hard. It’s not like another job where you can just zombie through it. With this job, I have to use all of me to write something, and when I’m tired or just not in the mood, that can be a little hard.

Something had to be done, however. I have to figure out how to discipline myself somehow. Just sit down and get it done.

This is where having a laptop and a desert island would be handy.

A lot of people are curious as to how to financial make it if you chose to live out a dream or live your passion. For writing, there is no steady paycheque if you’re doing freelance work and especially if you’re just beginning. I will be published shortly, however, a couple of them are not paid jobs. It’s more for exposure and experience. Money, from my work, is definitely not rolling into the bank – yet.

I am, however, fortunate in that Chris’ income can support both he and I comfortably. Being with him means I can afford to have freelance writing my full time job. If I was on my own, however, I don’t think that would be possible because rent has to be paid, food has to be eaten, lights have to be on, and clothes have to be worn. That costs money. And if you’re living as a freelance artist with humble beginnings, that can be a problem.

For others who want to live artistically or follow some other dream, the fear of not having money can discourage them from ever living out their dream.

It shouldn’t.

Perhaps you can’t quit your “real job” right now and become a freelance artist at home, like I did. I understand. But you can still have the word artist somewhere in your title.

I was reminded of this by a fellow named Dai Giang. He is a true artist, a painter. His works have been written up in major magazines, he’s had showings of his art around the world. He’s well known and quite respected.

Art, however, isn’t his day job.

He works at the last company I worked for. A company that manufactures outdoor gear for backpackers. And Dai Giang works in the least artistic part of the company – the manufacturing floor. He makes the same things over and over with heavy machinery. He doesn’t create there, he doesn’t have anything inspiring around him, and he certainly isn’t an artist in there. He’s a manufacturer.

But when you see his art, you’d never know. When you see his art, you see his passion, you see his dreams, you see what he lives for. Manufacturing just pays the bills. That’s not who he is. Below is who he is:

In America especially, you are defined by your job. In America, you’re supposed to get the best job possible with a great paycheque and a nice title. That’s why people get sent to universities, so they can get an impressive job. They don’t get sent to learn, they get sent so they don’t have to be burger flippers. Because in America, if you’re a burger flipper, you must be young, or stupid, or a slacker. If, however, you work in a fancy office with men in suits, chances are you’ll get more respect and people will think you have brains. In America, your job defines you. And that kind of thing can have people feeling trapped.

At my last job, in the office world, I felt that defined who I was. In order for me to realise I define myself, I had to leave it. I couldn’t call myself a writer until I felt that’s what I was working at full time. Looking back, however, I realise I was a writer all along, and that no matter what else I choose to do, I will always be a writer first. I define me. I chose my title. Not some corporation or the general public.

I think, for me, taking the time off to write, to believe in it and feel comfortable with calling myself a writer, was what I needed. If I ever felt the need to work or volunteer outside the home (which, perhaps soon I will, I need to be around others and be busy) I won’t ever worry about losing myself as a writer. Because no matter what, that’s what I am, and always will be.