I feel like every moment is being sucked away, and that it is being squandered. You see, I do not have set writing time. I have a "write at stoplights" kind of life. I have been known to scribble on the back of an envelope while in an elevator. I have texted myself ideas and lines of dialogue so I don't forget them. I have written on my arm when paper was scarce. Because ideas are precious, and they cannot be taken lightly.
Writing (or Art of any kind, really) comes at a steep price. I am not talking about the price that the consumer pays for the product, but the price that we as artists must pay in order to create Art.
|"Big Heart of Art" from qthomasbower on Flickr|
At the moment, as my eye twitches a bit spasmodically, I am realizing just how much sleep I have been deprived of lately. I have also been forced to say, "Hang on, sweetie. Mommy is almost finished with this article" a few more times that I would like as of late.
We pay in time, in lost opportunities, lost lunches, lost sleep, and lost sanity as we try to bring to life this thing that we can imagine so clearly in our mind. It is all of these lost bits that help to give Art its value; the value grows exponentially with all the blood and sweat and tears.
To all those people who claim, "You know, I could write a book" and to those who tear apart a work that encompassed four years of late nights and missed moments and peanut butter sandwiches...I wish to offer you a challenge: If you really think you could do it, or do it better, but all means: DO IT!
But don't try to devalue our Art with your pettiness.