Shattered Pieces of Nothing

It’s funny that in a time of great struggle to figure so much out, I have been confronted by yet another disappointment. I can’t call it failure, because it is not my failure. The theatre that I was writing for is in turmoil, and as a result the future of the play I was writing for it is now in jeopardy. And what’s the turmoil? People; fighting; backstabbing; hurt feelings. Human things, it shouldn’t surprise me. And it doesn’t surprise me; it disappoints me. I had hopes in this; I had a dream in the middle of all of this. And, as it stands, that dream is shattered. But what was it that was shattered? Hell, it could be potential failure; perhaps this is the best thing to have happen. It sucks when something falls apart before you even know what it was.

It’s left me wondering where to go. I didn’t realize how firmly I’d placed all my eggs in this one basket. Life’s been a challenge lately, and that doesn’t make any of this easier. I’ve found myself asking THE questions. The questions we all ask from time to time. Things about happiness and where it comes from, things about job satisfaction and if it’s possible, things about passion and how to live life with it without burning out. I must admit, I’m coming up with a lot more questions than answers, but maybe there’s something to that. Perhaps life IS more about the questions than the answers. I guess that sort of makes sense. Once you’ve got an answer, you’re done. Journey over. But questions move you forward; they egg you on. But questions can be daunting, and tiresome after a while. Maybe that’s my problem at the moment. Maybe the thing that shattered last week wasn’t my dream with the theatre, but the answer to “what should I be doing with my art?” I guess I’m pissed because I thought I had that answer. Silly me. I know I never had it, but now I’ve lost the illusion. And here I am back in reality. The thing that bugs me most about the world of art is that we spend so much time analyzing what makes us tick as artists, we don’t spend enough time DOING the art. I’ve spent many years thinking about art, and precious few doing my art. I am afraid that I’ll slip back into old habits, now that I’ve no theatre to write for. I just have to hope that my fear of those habits will be enough to keep me from them. To remember that talking about art doesn’t make you an artist, it makes you a critic. To be an artist you must be active; dig deep into the soul and pull something out. Maybe it is something full of hope, maybe it’s something full of sorrow. It could be just about anything, but THAT is what makes you an artist. I think that the trick to being a good artist is to forget that you are one. As I worked on this play I forgot I was an artist, I was just a guy writing a play about Mark Twain. Now I’ve lost my Mark. Gotta find something else.

Keep on traveling down roads paved in many questions, and few answers.