I Think I'm a Writer

A writer is on a long list of things I never thought I would identify as. I’m an artist. I draw. I paint. I illustrate. I design. I build. All of my life’s energy and focus has gone into developing my skills as a specific type of creative: A visual artist. I’ve done carpentry, and advertising. I’ve done branding and package design. I’ve painted murals and designed products. I’ve worked as a creative both inside and outside of a corporate setting. My career as an artist has spanned all types of industries. I’ve lived lifetimes in the visual art field and have acquired skills that span dozens of job descriptions. I have my pick of what type of artist I want to be. So I can’t be a writer. 

My father was a writer. 

My father wrote speeches for local politicians, and ad campaigns for CBS radio. He published his first book at 20 years old. And wrote 30+ books following that. He wrote poetry that won awards. He wrote across many different genres and disciplines. His vocabulary was limitless and he knew the etymology of every word. He would look over my school papers and revise them in embarrassment for me … because I’m not a writer. 

He's the reason I pursued visual arts. And not in the adorable encouraging way you’re most likely envisioning. There were no heartwarming family TV  “you can be anything you want to be” moments in my house. His support was shown the way a scientist studies their subjects:  “Patient 1 is exhibiting innate artistic abilities.” Once it was discovered that I had artistic talent, it was over. He began laying the brickwork for monetization. 

At age 5 I was put into extra-curricular art training and art summer camp. By age 8 I began working on my portfolio for art college and was encouraged to practice my art for at least one hour per day. Every item I produced was photographed and filed away for future use. By age 11, he had me walk into every art gallery within a 10-mile radius [ portfolio in hand ]  to ask the manager if they would sell my paintings at their establishment. The majority of these attempts failed, but I DID end up displaying my art in various places and selling several pieces. Do not underestimate the payoff of persistence. By age 14 he had me pumping out cartoons for a political comic he wrote in the 70’s and later submitted them to several syndications, which were ultimately rejected. I still have the comics… and the rejection letters. Many of the comics are still relevant today. By age 17, I was teaching art lessons to neighborhood children. 

My father, having the immigrant mentality of resourcefulness, always used the euphemism “Keep turning over rocks until you find something.”  As a devout pessimist, he inculcated the idea that I had no choice but to use every single one of my god-given abilities in order to claw my way up in the world.  I did have other skills that my father also helped me cultivate, but art was my best and most accessible skill. So we bet on that one. 

At 18, I was accepted with a pretty hefty scholarship to Pratt Institute. I spent my subsequent summers designing menus, logos, and t-shirts for random local businesses my father foisted upon me (in addition to working my other actual summer jobs). When you’re turning over rocks in the pursuit of generating revenue, there’s no room for enjoyment of the craft. And for a long time, I didn’t enjoy it. I just knew I was good at it. It was a skill not everyone had, which made it easier to monopolize. Art was never an escape for me. It was an early introduction to the oppression of capitalism. 

So here I am today: an artist for hire. I've never been the pour-my-soul-into-the-canvas type of artist. I don’t doodle for fun. I don’t express myself through my art. I don’t enjoy the process. My art is wholly transactional. Personally, I find that this mentality can be very freeing. Free from attachment. I can create something, sell it, and never think about it again. I guess I’m cold-blooded like that. However, people don’t like to think of artists that way. When someone purchases artwork, they want some performative emotional response about how much the piece means to them and to the world - and the story of what they were feeling when they created it. They somehow feel cheated when it signifies nothing other than a beautiful scene crafted by an expert artisan. Do I do my best? Yes. Do I put all of my efforts and focus into it? Of course. But it’s not a piece of me. I don’t do that. The only emotion I feel is the pride of the end result. That aside, I view it only as a product. A product that I sell in exchange for money to support myself and my family. 

All this is to say, art is not an outlet for me. I know many people who get an emotional release from their art - people who are itching to get back to their creations. That’s not me. I’ve always treated it as a job to derive profit from, which obviously stems from the way I was brought up. If I had shown an early aptitude for dance - I would have become a professional dancer. If I had shown an early aptitude for math - I would have become a high-level accountant - so on and so forth. I never had the luxury of exploring a skill solely for enjoyment. I’ve recently realized I never pursued anything as a form of self-expression because I didn’t grow up with that privilege. Pouring hours into something that is not an investment for your future is a luxury that not all children receive. My parents were doing what they thought would increase my probability of succeeding by doubling down on my inherent abilities. And it was a good bet because I’ve gone on to have a good career, and many opportunities; However, it rendered me with the inability to create art with emotion. And because of that, to this day, I cannot wrap my head around spending time on a project “for fun.”  I have friends that crochet, or paint, or play music - as an outlet, and I’ve always wondered what that must be like - to be free from the guilt of non-productivity. 

And it’s not as if I am devoid of the emotion people use to create things. It’s actually the opposite. I have a blinding rage that constantly swirls inside of me. But art is not where I’ve been putting that. It bubbles and overflows until I find myself spontaneously typing 800 words into an Instagram caption. It festers until I open my notes app and start jotting down full paragraphs of raw seething emotion.  All of a sudden, I have 50 Google Docs of my written thoughts and philosophies. How did I get here? I’ve never written anything in a serious way before. Anything I've ever written for others' consumption has been out of sheer necessity. I’ve written artist statements. I’ve written long-winded rants across various social media platforms, and a few articles that I’ve submitted to publications to promote my art. I also [may have] kept a diary when I was much younger and led a more interesting life. But I’m not a writer. So why am I suddenly deeply compelled to funnel effort into something I’ve had exactly zero training or education in? I’ve had people tell me I’m a writer. But I’ve fully ignored them because the idea of it is laughable. Real writers have studied literature for years. I never quite mastered the bibliography. Real writers are flowery. I’m conversational. Real writers have complex sentence structures - like Faulkner. I’m informal -  like you’re trapped in a one-sided argument. Real writers know the rules. My use of punctuation is … creative (ie. incorrect). How can I be a writer? 

But it feels good. It feels like the creative outlet I never had.  It’s something that feels risky. And powerful. It feels like a piece of me - like a legacy I never thought I needed to continue. And I need to do it or else I’ll explode.