Am I Too Old to be an Artist?

I’m filled with night stars and dark chocolate, with blindfolds and silk and rough, gritty voices but I can’t write any of it on paper.

To have so much soul in my veins and to cut myself open and have no blood pour out. That’s what it feels like trying to write tonight.

I feel exposed. It was one thing when I was younger, staying up all night replaying the same song on repeat to get in the right mood (do you do that too?) and just letting it flow. It was okay to be me back then. It was okay to have rough edges and dark thoughts and to push my hands into my words and have them sink down into the computer screen, to dive into the keyboard, into the digital ink, and swim in my words, to be my words, to drown in them.

But now I’m paralyzed. Because I know that Emma Stone was full of shit when she said that people love what other people are passionate about. Every marketer knows that people love themselves, and fuck the rest.

And I want so badly to publish things that you care about.

I am a caged tiger. The sedatives have worn off and I spring to life, ready to grab you by the collar and pull you in to my world, to swallow you whole and take you inside of me, to show you the world underneath my skin, where all things come alive. I am screaming on the top of my lungs a guttural, primal cry, but the only thing you and I hear is silence.

I am alive. I hope I’ll become comfortable enough in my own skin to share it with you. I want to drag you through the dirt into the grit and sweat and noise with me. Into the dimly lit corner of a back room where all the best stories are told. Where all the true stories are told.

But my truth is uncomfortable and misshapen and not politically correct. And I’m not sure I can show it to the world at this age.