Portrait of the Artist as a Middle-Aged Woman

Is it possible to separate the artist from the person, or the person from the artist?

I would say, unequivocally, no.

I can only speak, knowledgeably, to the artist as writer. I cannot address other media or creative processes, but I will take a leap and say that the artist and the person are inseparable.

Personally, I am always writing.

Sometimes on paper or the computer keyboard, yes, but always in my head. I don’t think I am ever “not” writing. I am always observing, taking note, eavesdropping on conversations, twirling phrases around in my head, writing huge chunks of story in my mind. This can be conscious or unconscious.

And then there is what is constantly going on below the level of consciousness, that hum of electric energy, that stewing and fermenting that never stops. And expresses itself sometimes in my dreams, my daydreams, my imaginary conversations and interactions, or even eventually in conscious thought or expressed word.

I am addressing this topic of the creative process because a co-worker and friend began to read my blog and noticed some similarities between things I was writing about and things we had talked about at work.

Where do I get topics for my blog?

Does real life influence what I write about? Or does what I write about emerge in real life?

The answer, of course, would be both.

Sometimes I will be talking about something and that will trigger thoughts in my mind about a possible blog topic, or it will somehow work its way into a current blog topic. Other times I will be writing a blog post, or mulling one over, and express verbally, out loud, some thoughts that once expressed seem right for that particular post.

Movies I see, books I read, news stories, events and interactions in my daily life, all of these can weave their way into something I am writing.

And not just into blog postings. Into anything I am writing: a story, a poem, an essay, a casual email musing.

What if I hadn’t had that conversation about x?

What if I hadn’t suddenly remembered something from my past which I would later weave into my writing?

Then my writing would have been different.

Perhaps I would have talked about something else instead. And a different thought or memory would have come into my head. And somehow gotten integrated into my writing.

As I was writing a recent blog post, I was conscious of the fact that I was weaving in something I had thought of/remembered and mentioned in a conversation earlier in the day. I was also conscious of the fact that the person I had had this conversation with might very well read my blog post and recognize it and call me on it.

Not many people read my blog. A few close friends with whom I share my blog URL, the occasional stranger who stumbles upon it or links to it from someone else’s blog.

Although a blog is open to the entire world, or the entire world with Internet access, I think of it as a more private place.

For me, anyway.

I know that very few people are reading my blog, and those who are either know me really well or don’t know me at all.

And this gives me a certain amount of freedom to write as I wish or to write about things that make me feel vulnerable.

Because I have children, there are certain topics I simply do not write about in my blog. That is my conscious choice. Not that my children read my blog or even know about it. But just in case they ever do.

Yes, it is true, I at times write about my children.

But usually in a humorous or good-natured way.

There are some blog posts they might not be very happy about, because they are teenagers going through all that teen crap and angst and awkwardness. But I would never write things that were intentionally cruel or mean-spirited.

Usually my kids crack me up, or say something profound, or frustrate the hell out of me with their teenness.

My blog allows me to write about my life and life in general as an anonymous citizen.

I am by nature a very shy and introverted person. But my blog allows me to make parts of myself vulnerable in a way that I do not feel is overly threatening.

It also allows me to write something more “real” than fiction, although sincerely I do believe that there is more truth in fiction than there is in real life.

Fiction is all about truth.

Some people insist that the Bible is literally true. Others say it is just stories. If we look at Jesus in the Bible, some of his most powerful truths are conveyed in parables.

Does something have to be literally true in order to convey truth?

No, of course not.

I think what sets man apart from animals is stories. And storytelling. And the search for truth.

Man tells stories in order to try to make sense of his world, his universe. Man is always trying to find the meaning of life, or meaning in life. If he does not find meaning, then he tends to create it.

We have a huge aversion to meaninglessness.

I have a huge aversion to meaninglessness.

I write because I have to.

I cannot not write.

I could no more not write than not breathe.

Is everyone like this?

I am not sure.

My guess would be no.

I think often people have passions or creative urges that are an integral part of their being. Be it writing or singing or dancing or painting or acting or running or gardening or teaching or helping or loving or any number of things.

Does life have meaning, or is the only meaning to life that which we bring to it?

If I had the definitive answer to that question, then the whole world would be reading my blog.

And I would have to stop writing it.

And that would be a sad day for me, at least.