Do you ever lie to yourself? I know I do. For instance . . .

Sometimes, I tell myself I don’t know what to do when I really don’t want to do it.

Other times, I tell myself I don’t know what I want to do, when I really don’t know why.

And worst of all, I tell myself I don’t know why when I actually know quite well. I just don’t think my why is good enough.

I think I need a big, fat reason, one that’s practical or other-worldly.

On the practical end, I tell myself things like, “You can’t just blog to make a few, new friends. You have to attract a big readership or build a huge customer base. Then you’ll have a number to track. Everybody knows you gotta have a number.”

On the other-worldly end, I say things like, “You can’t just draw because it’s interesting. You should be seeking to become transcendent, enlightened, and inexplicably one with the intelligence of the cosmos, whatever that is.”

But it’s really not helpful to make up bogus reasons. They tend to demotivate you.

It’s better to just be honest. I’m doing this because it’s fun. I’m doing this because I like it. I’m doing this because I think I’ll just go crazy if I don’t.

Do you want to feed the hungry? What reasons do you need? They’ll get fed and you’ll feel better. Sounds good enough to me.

Want to take up painting but don’t know why? How about you’ve always liked the smell of paints? Or maybe you just want an excuse to wear a smock.

After a long period of wrestling with why I want to do the things I want to do, I settled on the following:

There’s only one person I spend all my time with. Me. If I’m going to spend the rest of my life with that guy, I’d like to keep him interesting, so I need to give him interesting things to do and think about.

And that’s pretty much it.

It’s not that practical. You can’t measure it, track it, or even spend it for heaven’s sake.

It’s not spiritually mind blowing. No one’s going to canonize me for it.

It is, however, honest. It lifts me out of a slump. It gets me unstuck. What else do I need it to do?

If you can’t find a big, fat reason to do something you want to do, try giving up the search. A small, honest reason is probably all you need.

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Fear is. The sooner we learn that, the better.

Sometimes it looms and sometimes it lurks, but it’s always around, and that’s really not such a bad thing.

Fear, after all, keeps us from blindly driving off the cliff, running into the fire, and diving headfirst into the pool of crocodiles. It’s there for a reason.

The only trouble with fear is that it’s not always reasonable. It can’t distinguish a good risk from a bad one. Its only cry is danger. It knows nothing of rewards.

That’s why it sometimes tries to protect us from the things we most desire. It stands guard at the door to our dreams, telling us how foolish we would be to enter.

“You’re not ready for this,” it warns us, “You’re in over your head.”

And so it keeps us from trying. “You’re just going to get hurt.” it tells us.

It keeps us from participating. “You won’t be welcome there. They’ll eat you alive.”

It keeps us from expanding. “Stick to what you know. Stay within your niche. Don’t stray out. It’s so much safer here.”

If we listen, do what fear tells us to do, and avoid what it tells us not to, then, for a time, we do feel safe. We avoid danger.

But we also avoid challenge and we miss out on growth and we get stuck in the mire of what could have been and feel as if we’re half the person we want to be.

Fear once told me to give up on writing. “It’s a pipe dream,” it told me, “You’ll write and you’ll write and no one will care. No one will read it, and you’ll never earn a dime.”

But my fear didn’t know what desire suspected, namely that writing could be a way to help me clarify my interests, discover what I felt, find out what I thought, and make a little sense of the world.

Desire was right, and fear, as it turns out, has only been one for three thus far. There are people who do care and people who do read what I write and I even have reason to believe that one day I will earn that dime.

To find all that out, I had to move fearward.

Ignoring it didn’t work. It only grew louder.

Running away didn’t work. It chased after me.

I had to acknowledge it, approach it, feel it, and move past it.

And approaching it is not the same as charging it. It did me no good to pull back my shoulders, puff out my chest, and draw my sword. Fear can be a tenacious fighter.

Instead, I had to act like an adult, something I haven’t always been good at, something I’m still learning to do even at the age of 43.

I had to stay calm but remain resolute. “Sorry, fear,” I had to say, “I appreciate your concern, but this is something I’m going to do.” And then I had to do it.

When you behave like that, fear has no option but to get out of your way and let you through the door.

There is, however, one thing you must know. Fear is always one door down. “I let you slip through that one,” it seems to be fond of saying, “but I’ll be damned if you’re getting through this one.”

Your job and my job is to keep moving towards it, forward, fearword, and, when it’s prudent, to go ahead and let it be damned.

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You could give up, but if you do, you know as well as I do that you’ll wind up wanting to start again some day. Then you’ll have to start over from the very bottom. Ugh.

It’s kind of like the story of Sisyphus, the king of Greek mythology, who was forced to roll a boulder up a hill only to watch it roll back down again and then do so over and over for all eternity.

Isn’t it time you stop Sisyphus-ing around and stick with it? Don’t give up. Push until you reach the top. Then you can watch the boulder roll down the other side of the hill rather than back on top of you. You can even follow it to the bottom, jump on top of it, and do a victory dance.

Once that boulder’s up and over, you can start on another one. Up, up, and over. Then over again. Victory after victory.

Sure, it’s still a succession of uphill battles, but it’s not the same one again and again, and there are victories in between. So much better than a defeat set on repeat.

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I doodled some stuff about art work, by which I mean the work of making art. Click the image if you want to get the “big picture”.

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It’s been a shitty month. I’m sorry. Did I write that out loud?

Originally, I had hoped that May, the month that marked the one year anniversary of this blog, would be a time of celebration. I even thought about calling it the Mild Month of May and making a mildly big deal of it.

But things didn’t turn out the way. I won’t bore you with a rehash of the details, but let’s just say things didn’t quite go the way I’d planned.

Oh, screw it. Let me bitch a little. My computer crashed and I worked a bunch of double shifts and I and everyone else in my house got sick and my mother had to have surgery and then I decided it would be a grand time to kick my smoking habit.

Sure. Things could be worse, but they still feel pretty shitty.

But the worst thing that happened is that I failed to trust you and tried to hide my demons. I didn’t want you to see the madness and sorrow and frustration that sometimes comes to pay a visit. After all, I thought, I’m supposed to be a source of inspiration.

But who am I kidding? This is all part of the journey. You know that and I know that and there’s no use denying it.

Here I am trying to write a book about the benefits of doing something daily while abandoning the practice whenever things get ugly because I don’t want you to see how truly ugly those things sometimes make me feel.

And this isn’t the first time. Every time you’ve ever seen me go into hiding it’s because I’ve been engaged in some kind of struggle, some battle I didn’t want you to know I was having to wage.

But sometimes being mildly creative means going mildly insane, and I might as well let you know that.

If this is truly going to be my work, then it has to be my work no matter how I’m feeling. If I’m ever going to have a breakthrough, then I’m going to have to work through the road blocks and the pot holes and the occasional strands of shitty days and shitty moods that are bound to get in my way.

And that, to me, means posting something even if it’s just an angry little sentence, poem, picture, video, or whatever, because working (writing, drawing, thinking, creating) every day is the best way I’ve ever found to keep moving forward. And I want to keep moving forward.

So, if you don’t object (and even if you do), I’m going to keep moving forward, even if it looks as if I’m losing my mind. I’d rather look like I’m losing it than actually do so.

Who knows? This could result in some of my best work – work that truly inspires, not in spite of its ugliness, but because of it – work that’s ugly and honest and transparent and thus ultimately beautiful because its human, just like you and me.

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If your life were built of bricks and you were the mason, how would you hold things together?

What would you use to make each brick stick and everything stick together? What would you use for mortar?

The Thing That Makes Things Stick

For me, it’s writing. It isn’t, I’m finding out, something I can just fit in somewhere. There’s no specific time or place where I can store it. It’s with me all the time and it’s everywhere I go.

All in all, it’s not another brick in the wall.

If I set it aside, things seem to crumble. If I pick it back up, things start to stick together again.

It is the mortar of my life. It fills the empty spaces and connects one thing to another.

This is what drawing must be to Danny Gregory, what music must be to Fabeku Fatunmise, what photography must be to David and Libby NIghtingale.

The Mortar Matters Most to Me

From one day to the next, I may or may not draw, may or may not pick up my guitar, and life will feel much the same. But if I miss one day of writing, I can sense it.

Writing is how I generate ideas and solutions. It’s how I make decisions. It’s what I do for me and and what I do for you. It’s what I have to give.

And, for that reason, I can’t simply squeeze it in. Instead, I heap it on the trowel and spread it throughout my day as I build my life, brick by brick.

What’s the Mortar with You?

How are you holding it all together? Where’s your mortar?

Are you using it liberally or simply trying to squeeze it in?

What could you build if you always kept it by your side?

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Imagine an athlete who spends hours every day practicing her sport. She goes through the drills. She works on the fundamentals. The only problem? She never plays the game.

This, I think, is what we do when we confuse creativity with craftsmanship.

Practice and Play

Craftsmanship is a lifelong pursuit. It’s something we can always improve but never perfect. It takes time. It takes patience. It takes practice.

Creativity, on the other hand, is accessible every day. There’s always a game at hand. We can be as creative as we want to be as soon as we decide to be.

Long before you develop the skills you seek as a musician, an artist, or a writer, you’re free to pick up a guitar, a paint brush, or an ink pen and get in the game.

It’s Anybody’s Game

An amateur can play with as much heart and effort as a professional.

The poem of a budding writer can be just as honest as the latest work of a poet laureate.

The painting of a novice can be just as playful and imaginative as one produced by a master.

A song played by a beginner who only knows two chords can express the same emotions as one played by a virtuoso.

Practice Makes Perfect, but Play Makes Practice Purposeful.

Craftsmanship is a worthy pursuit. When we develop it, we increase our level of skill and the number of moves we can choose to express what we long to express.

But don’t make the mistake of waiting until you’ve mastered an art form before you begin to use it to express anything at all.

If you deny yourself the joy of being creative while you’re striving to be more skilled, you’re unlikely to become either. If you never play the game, your practice will seem pointless and you’ll lose your motivation to continue.

Playing (creating), after all, is a form of practice all its own, one in which you take the skills you already have, no matter how undeveloped they may seem, and put them to use on the field (the canvas, the page, the strings).

One, Two, Three, Four. What the Heck are We Practicing For?

Do this and your practices will have more meaning. You’ll know why you’re doing the drills, have a better understanding of what you need to work on, and be far more motivated to do so.

So, go ahead and get in the game. I’ll be cheering you on.

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I’m experiencing a little setback. My computer either has a cold or it’s dying; I can’t determine which.

As you might imagine, a computer crash is bad news for a blogger, especially one who scans his drawings and drops them into his posts. At the moment, I’m forced to borrow Carol’s laptop when it’s available just to get a simple post out and check my messages.

I have two choices. I can either panic, which is what I’ve been doing for the past four days, or I can take a step back and decide what I’m going to do next.

I think I’ll go with the latter. After all, a step back is all a setback really is, unless we treat it otherwise.

If you and I panic in the face of one, we turn it into a monumental road block and everything comes to a screeching halt.

But if we can remember to take a deep breath, step back, and take a longer look, we might find an opportunity. I wish I could have remembered that four days ago.

If I had, I might have noticed that I had an opportunity to work on my book and forget about the blog for a few days. I don’t know what you think, but I think that may have been a better option than pacing the floor and swearing.

Tomorrow morning, I’m hauling in my computer and handing it over to a professional. I don’t know how long it’s going to take to repair, or how much it’s going to cost, or if it can even be done.

But I do know I have a bundle of ink pens, a stack of sketchbooks, and a lot of free time to write and draw. I may not post every day, but I can still work every day. Who knows? This could be the most productive time I’ve had all year.

That is, of course, if I don’t panic.

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Author’s note: Due to a continuing problem with my computer, I may not be able to add pictures for a few days, but that doesn’t mean I haven’t been drawing them. I’ll add them as soon as I either solve the problem or find a workaround.

The Muse: Wow, you sure have a lot of art supplies.

Me: Yeah, I know.

The Muse: Are you using them?

Me: Not all of them, no.

The Muse: Which ones are you using?

Me: The dollar-ninety-nine sketchbook, the Pilot G2 ink pens, and the Faber-Castell artist pens.

The Muse: Why them?

Me: I like them. I like the way they look and the way they feel and the stuff I create when I use them.

The Muse: What about the vellum?

Me: Haven’t tried it yet.

The Muse: Why did you buy it?

Me: I heard some guy recommend it – highly recommend it, in fact.

The Muse: But you’re still using the dollar-ninety-nine sketch book.

Me: Yes, but not as much as I’d like to.

The Muse: Why not?

Me: I keep thinking I should be using all the other stuff. I mean, after all, I paid money for it.

The Muse: I see. So, instead of creating something with the things you like using, you spend your time feeling guilty for not creating with the things you don’t.

Me: Pretty much.

The Muse: May I make a suggestion?

Me: Shoot.

The Muse: Pack it all up.

Me: Huh?

The Muse: Pack it all up. Everything.

The gloss, the glue, the tissue paper.

The canvas, the vellum, the acrylic, watercolor, and mixed-media paper.

The paints, the brushes, the pencils, and pastels.

Pack it all up.

All of it.

In a box.

Today.

Right now.

All of it except for, of course, the dollar-ninety-nine sketch pads, the Pilot G-2′s, and the Faber-Castell’s.

Me: Then what?

The Muse: Start making stuff again.

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When I tell people what I do with my free time, some say I have too much. Maybe they’re right, but it doesn’t feel that way.

It only felt that way when I wasn’t doing the things I now do.

My writing and drawing might seem silly to some, but they make sense to me. Before I began, nothing did.

I found my peace with an ink pen in my hand. I once was lost, but now I write; was blind, but now I draw.

There are other things that make sense to me, things like kissing my wife, sending goofy text messages to my daughter, watching zombie movies with my son, listening to a local band with a group of friends.

When does life make sense to you?

When you’re solving a puzzle?

When you’re molding a lump of clay?

When you’re holding someone’s hand?

When you’re on a platform dancing, singing, acting, or teaching?

If it makes sense, then it’s not a waste of time. If it is, then everything is, and you might as well waste your time wisely.

It makes sense to me.

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