The Reluctant Artist

Is it strange to feel your most artistic when witnessing or admiring the art of others? Is it envy? Is it the bittersweet memory of a lost love? Or is it simpler? A trigger for the yearning in your heart–to act out a dream. To remember that you had something to say in the conversations of observation. Something only you can say in the voice God gave you.

Or perhaps the trigger is recognizing your voice from the mouth of another. For is not that what art is–a message unveiled?

“No great work of art has come from out of the blue,” said one whom I revere as an authority on the matter. His message? Don’t worry too much about having your own style. You’re likely not to have any at all that way.

The point? I admire artists the world abound–particularly writers and musicians (those of my own heart). Somehow, outside the constraints of practicality, they manage to produce. To find the time. To make time to make. How wonderful are those with vision and conviction?

I like the blog because it’s unassuming. I’m not reluctant to wield the pen out of fear that the message will go unfinished. Or unoriginal. The pen is heavy that way.

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