The other day, I took a roadtrip with a stranger I’d met through mutual friends. Nothing romantic, but he seemed like someone I could carry conversation with for a few hours’ drive to Vermont.
Turns out, he’s an editor by trade and ridiculously articulate. He envied my palate and my ability to pinpoint flavors (e.g. “this tastes like goo-gone, Bubbalicious gum, and Irish Spring soap”) and I envied his storytelling techniques and how he called upon an arsenal of authors’ works.
One story doubled as a pep talk and reminded me to write. Write! WRITE! Right… And that no barrier, imagined or otherwise, can be an excuse to idle. Yeah, yeah: the more you practice, the easier it gets.
Except, it never gets easier. You only go faster. Right? And to repeatedly share yourself, ideas and musings and all, is in and of itself a worthy pursuit.
Reminds me of an Annette Messager quotation that still sticks in my side: “Being an artist means forever healing your own wounds and at the same time endlessly exposing them.” Wounds aside, writing to contextualize all that whirs around me may be a win-win situation for my own sanity and perhaps for you too, dear reader.
Then, maybe, just maybe, I’ll be closer to calling myself both artist and writer.