Is there ever a moment when a writer looks in the mirror completely content? Or is it some kind of pain, either real or imagined, which pushes us forward into the abyss of fiction? It is as if somehow, some way, we feel that our words will heal our soul, or maybe it is the other way around.
This morning I wrote to another literary agent. I had originally intended on sending out the second novel to an agent or two, but then found one based in Seattle. Because my first book starts there, and most of the depravity which controls Brian Jefferson is a function of his Seattle life, I thought it a good fit to submit to a local agent.
Sometimes I wonder as I wander and it is about as clear as pea soup what I think at times. Ideas strike, then another voice says that this is all bullshit. You know? I mean, we are a self-loathing sort. There is a reason so may artists flock to bigger cities; it is so much easier to get lost in anonymity. Sure, every artist wants others to appreciate their work, but the truth is we hide sometimes. Name a great fiction writer without a fatal flaw and I will debate on end whether that person was truly a great writer. Art is filled with insanity and that insanity leads to something brilliant and breathtaking in one fashion or another.
When Robin Williams died, I wrote about why it is that so many tortured souls tend to be artists. We walk around, we see the world through a cracked or warped lens and cannot understand why everyone does not see it this same way.
And, honestly, it is not really self-loathing, it is more like fear and insecurity that we mask with a faux self-loathing. We like to wallow in our own misery because it enhances our sense of being an artist.
Do all artists feel this way? I cannot tell you how you feel, but art rarely comes from sunshine and rainbows. Well, maybe fantasy comes from there, but not art. Art comes from something deeper and more profound. Art comes from looking at the world through that cracked lens and trying to portray the world as we see it – warts and all.