I'm obsessed these days with how hard it is to make a living when you have a passion and talent in one of the arts. I have a mother that is a painter, a brother that is a musician and I began adulthood as an actress. Now I'm a writer. I'm not particularly good at math but I can tell you that between the three of us we haven't a nickel to rub together from our artistic pursuits.
We've all made a living other ways of course. I spent a long time on the corporate track, neglecting my art all the while. But recently I took two years to write a novel because the desire was so strong in me that I had to answer it. And it hasn't worked out. My novel (that feels like my third child) has been rejected by the people who count in the book business; i.e. people who know how to market and sell books. Mine isn't good enough it seems for anyone to take a chance on it. And that hurts.
Some of the rejections were encouraging. Some of the feedback was so harsh it made a little part of me collapse into a ball of empty space. But I learned a lot.
So I keep writing. I write even when it doesn't make sense. I write, clinging to the kernels of encouragement that have come from my group of trusted readers and even from some of the experts. I write. I rewrite. I have the first draft of a new novel almost finished.
And there is something beautiful in the journey. There is meaning in the doing of something just because you love it. There is a perfectness in not giving into the critic inside your head that tells you on a daily basis to give up. Because deep inside, if you listen really really hard you will hear a voice that tells you not to give in or give up because there is something unique about you, something suprememly special about the way God made you. It matters that you answer the call of your soul.
Even when you're broke. Or broken.
