Calling Dr. Freud

Originally Posted Saturday, January 19, 2013

One of the difficult things about trying to write or make some other form of art is that you are constantly failing.  You try something that doesn't work out as you hoped.  You look at it, read it, and you are dismayed.  Sometimes the dismay is put off for awhile as you think you have succeeded in doing what you hoped.  Then later, perhaps, you realize either that you did succeed but that the work was naive or silly in some way, that it wasn't a technical failure but something more profound.  Other times, you know right off.  If you try to create, you will be faced with failure more often than other people, more often than not. 

I am beginning to think that is why artists and writers become unhinged.  It is the constant failure.  It is terribly difficult to live with. 

I've come to realize that I am suffering from that.  I am coming unhinged.  I don't know that I want to try "all of this" any more.  Every day I tell myself that I will quit, that this will be final.  I am spending money on a studio and materials without any payback.  That money should be going to my house.  I woke this morning thinking of the future.  It was terrifying and terribly bleak.  I began to panic. 

I'm trying to get control of myself this morning, but I seem to have come to some rather severe conclusions.  And still, the thought of sinking back into the muck, of losing my voice. . . it seems bad, too. 

This argument will continue, I know.  Perhaps I should seek help.  Calling Dr. Freud, Calling Dr. Freud.