Writers do not have the privilege of sleep. There is always a story coming alive in their heads, constantly composing. Whether they choose it or not.
The true artist is not proud, he unfortunately sees that art has no limits; he feels darkly how far he is from the goal; and though he may be admired by others, he is sad not to have reached that point to which his better genius only appears as a distant, guiding sun. I would, perhaps, rather come to you and your people, than to many rich folk who display inward poverty.
The Internet is the best and worst thing to ever happen in this lifetime.
You say great artists sell their souls for their art?”
“Maybe,” she ventured.
“That’s true, I suppose. If you’re doing it right, anyway. I’ve probably sold mine. Jack’s certainly sold his. And you, I imagine.”
“I have not!” she said, anger showing clear in her eyes.
“Not literally,” he said hastily. “But we give up being a person to be an artist, don’t we?
We need to clean our own yards before we go looking for -shit- in someone else’s.
When you forget about the how, go back to the why.
Art does not have to be dull, to be effective; the artist does not have to be a bore, to be real.
She was a gypsy, as soon as you unravelled the many layers to her wild spirit she was on her next quest to discover her magic. She was relentless like that, the woman didn’t need no body but an open road, a pen and a couple of sunsets.
I’ve always loved the night, when everyone else is asleep and the world is all mine. It’s quiet and dark-the perfect time for creativity.
A good artist should laugh often!