You’ve probably heard more than one artiste refer to their art as therapeutic. With good reason. Many of us would have come to the art in the first place as that thing that would help us make sense of the world and our place in it, that thing through which we could filter everything…the good, the bad…mostly the bad. We’re lucky to have art; it keeps us astride life.
There’s also friendship and family, of course, and hopefully, within that, people with whom we can truly be ourselves, but some nights …we’ve got the funk…and not the good –adelic kind. And some nights, our own reserves are not enough, and the supports aren’t there because …well, everybody’s got their lives to live, don’t they…add a whiff of bitterness to the things choking you.
At such times you remember when you and art first found each other, and you pour it all into story, and the story’s not about you, but if you didn’t feel this then you couldn’t write that. And thank God for that, that there’s creative release …until even the whiff of bitterness dissipates.