The artist committing himself to his calling has volunteered for hell, whether he knows it or not. He will be dining for the duration on a diet of isolation, rejection, self-doubt, despair, ridicule, contempt, and humiliation.
I started writing over at the Plant Eaters’ Manifesto six months ago.
I wasn’t an artist committing myself to my calling, but I was committing myself to have some fun blogging with my wife about a subject we care about. No one told me I’d volunteered for hell.
I thought a little writing would satisfy my craving for a creative outlet. I thought a little writing would help me wind down after a long day. I thought a little writing about vegan food – a subject so very central to my everyday life – would come easy.
Sheesh. Of all the assumptions I made, I never imagined feeling miserable. Alone. Worthless. Humiliated. Self-hatred. Each time I sit down to write, I end up at war with myself.
And yet, most days, there’s nothing I’d rather do.
Why is that?
Maybe it’s because I love the feeling of getting to know myself. Maybe it’s because it makes me feel like I’m pushing my boundaries.
I’m not quite sure, but I’m committed to explore the misery.