Poetic Birth

     My first serious poem was written on a cool autumn morning in Colorado, when I was thirteen. The inspiration came seemingly from nowhere, but, as I wrote of my affection fot the towering cottonwood tree in my backyard, the words flowed out onto the page so effortlessly. I had always enjoyed writing- I can still remember being awarded a certificate with the titile "future author" on it at the end of my fourth grade year- but this was a defining moment. And so, from that morning on, I continued to write furiously, with a creative fire that could not be put out. What did I write? Anything and everything I could think of. I was always thinking, brainstorming new ideas, journaling on a wide variety of topics- whatever came to mind. I've even tried my hand at novel-writing on more than one occasion in these past 4 years. Two of my book attempts still sit, unfinished, in the back of an old binder.

     Though the same can't be said of my book-writing pursuit, I always stuck to my poetry. Countless poems fill the pages of that same old binder, and my journal, and even my sketchbook. It would surely be impossible to calculate the hours I've spent in my room, scribbling away, with my pen as my only companion. Poetry became more than what I write; it became a very significant part of who I am. It was perfect as a personal creative outlet, but I knew it was a gift, as well. 

Relentless Doubt

     I've considered trying to get my work published on many occasions. The idea of doing so really doesn't seem so far-fetched. Still, every time the thought re-forms in my mind, something holds me back. Now, as I near adulthood, I wonder why. "You could do it," I tell myself. "Why should anything prevent you from becoming a published poet?"

     Then comes the voice of insecurity and doubt echoing through my head. What if I'm not good enough? What if I've been fooling myself all these years? What if no one is interested? Is it possible that I'm headed nowhere? "You're hopeless!" the pessimistic inner voice shouts. 

     After yet another mental self-debate, I sit alone and hope I haven't actually gone crazy this time. In the end, it seems the what if's always outweigh even my ridiculous idealism. I fear I am, at times, the uncanny representation of the struggling artist stereotype.  But it appears this is shockingly common in the artistic community.

The Reality of Artistic Suffering

    Consider this: a doctor, a lawyer, a teacher- they do their work and are then paid for the hours they put in. Their jobs come with a sense of stability and certainty. For artistic individuals, there is no such guarantee. I could out months or even years into one creative project, bare my heart and soul, give absolutely everything I have, but, in reality, it may not matter at all. The truth is, my success relies entirely upon promotion, my audience, and the public reaction. If the people deem my work worthless, the injury is not only emotional, but financial, as well. Perhaps this explains why the artist stereotype is so common. 

     This is the same across the board for painters, musicians, actors, writers, etc.

     According to a study by the Mellon foundation, 57% of artists face financial insecurity, due to such issues as juggling multiple jobs and reliance on gigs. Artistic rejection is destructive to the wallet, emotions, and ego. 

     Adding to the struggle is the problem of society rarely taking artists seriously. Culture endlessly consumes art, but hardly ever appreciates the artists behind it all. Often times, it seems the system built around our kind of work expects us to constantly produce while existing quietly in the background. The rest of the world is to benefit from us and we are to accept thar, and have little to no rights. 

     All the while, we are commonly depicted as irresponsible and foolishly delusional for fighting to live a lifestyle we're passionate about, rather than settling for an unfullfilling job that pays well, but makes us miserable... Unless, of course, we really "make it." But at what price? If the price of success- or society's perception of it- is our individuality, is it worth it?

     With all this, is it any wonder that insecurity is so familiar to most all of us in the creative community? That voice shouting that we're hopeless becomes near impossible to ignore. But this is exactly why we cannot surrender. A world where the system wins is a world of complacency, and true art and complacency cannot coexist.