any ink is good ink, I think
As for me, the studio looks like my muse threw up.
It's been pointed out to me that much of the success in being a professional artist is in knowing how to toot your own horn. And it's true, an age-old secret of the creative arts: if you don't shy away from shameless self-promotion, you just might make it. Look at Walt Whitman, who got his start by publishing his own work and then writing glowing reviews for himself under various pen names.
Fortunately, I've been tooting my own horn since I was 36. Right after I learned how to put my shoes on the right feet and properly identify my own elbow in a lineup of rumps.
The October calendar in the Arts and Living section of the Sunday paper this morning reads:
Oct. 1 - ArtsLink art exhibit, 2-4 p.m., free.
Hello? Art exhibit by ME. ME! ME ME ME ME ME ME ME ME! Honestly! This paper! But I used to work for these people. Which is why I'm not calling them up to make a "clarification" (rule number one in journalism: it's never a correction. Correction implies you are at fault. Clarification is just an adjustment in focus, simply an enhancement of details, and assigns no personal responsibility or blame. Class dismissed).
If I complain they might rewrite it and then put it in the obituaries, under Burials Today.
Here's the other thing: they might actually remember me and say, "But ...wait. You mean you're an artist? Didn't you used to work for us? Weren't you a writer?"
I was, but see? I went and changed tracks. Like that's actually possible. Like I just woke up one day and said, "Well, enough of that. From now on, let's be an artist instead."
Since when are you an artist, Sharon?
Since....since, I always have been. I just didn't finish my training, and then after I dropped out I didn't want to talk about it.
This is scary, you know.
But it also feels -- really right.