I have had no time to devote to my pursuit of an agent or publishing. I have a new grand son. He is completely beautiful. I have been trying to be an artist who can sell paintings. I have sold some, they are little pieces for little pennies. My mind is pursuing outlines of my writing projects I have yet to write. I sort and catalog my ideas but still I merely run in place. Belief in my story gets chiseled away. Thoughts like, well maybe you just suck at writing like your sucky stupid paintings. Are my feet standing on solid ground believing anyone would give a s---t about my little novel? Does anyone hear? Hello? Is there anybody in there?
In "My Profile" I discuss my painter side. As the old adage goes, "Jack of All Trades, master of none" It was 1960 when I was eight years old and learning to paint with oils. The school I attended on weekends was this art school that was associated with The Indianapolis Art Museum which at the time was called The John Herron Art Museum. The school was run by young beatniks who would say "cool daddio" and they wore white smocks and black tights and berets. I wanted with all my heart to be like them, cool and a painter.
I think artists are driven by the need to have Mom put the little drawing they made on the refrigerator with those little magnets.
I'm not sure what motivates writers. Humans have a long history of needing to tell a story. It comes naturally. When I was a kid I wrote little poems. English class was my favorite subject. The teachers would tell us to write something.
With some of my heart I want to write. Some of my heart because I have to divvy out my heart. I started to learn guitar in eighth grade. Soon that was all my heart.
Life gets in the way of childhood dreams. These dreams don't manifest themselves in reality. Dreams don't pay bills and raise children.
I've written songs (many), stories, novels, plays and musicals. I bring this up because when you try to find an agent it's "List your published work." This is where I make the Lucy face(I Love Lucy) and go "Ew-illll huh-oh."
I've already dealt with "You want to show your paintings here? Really! We do art here!"
So "We are sorry to say no." is not new territory for me.
My eyes are spinning from all the reading on "How to find an agent." Today I put another notch on my looser belt of rejections. It has not been that many, so far about four, but talking about taking the wind out of your sails. I have pained over "How to write a query letter" to where I think I really don't know how. If I knew how then why wouldn't these people be bowled over by my exquisite example of a letter? I swear, I've tried something different every time.
I learned to paint when I was eight. I picked up guitar when I was twelve. I was young when I had children and did not start any sort of career. I was bitten by the theatre bug in my early thirties. I've painted so many sets that it is difficult to count them all. Sets are not a permanent thing. They are much like the actors that play on them, transient in their importance. As soon as the show is over, then it is taken apart and destroyed. I had to quit my job at The Arvada Center in Colorado, when my back could not take it anymore. For the last five years I have been home mostly writing and painting paintings. It is what I dreamed about doing to make a go of it as a fine artist. There are moments when I truly feel that I am running in place.