Dear World

Please Kill Me,

For all the crap we get, there’s a certain EXPECTATION that people have for writers, artists, musicians, chefs, and pretty much any creative profession that doesn’t end in -fluencer.

*shudders*

Namely that, at some point on this weird-ass timeline, a group or collective decided that anyone pursuing creative or otherwise impassioned endeavors must be something of a slave to it, a junkie for it, and somehow wholly sustained by it. 

I won’t go so far as to say that’s complete bullshit (…because at times it’s dead-on), but it isn’t what I’d consider a reasonable or otherwise rational way to look at us—despite the perceived grandeur, pomposity, high-mindedness, aloofness, drugs, alcohol, and/or fever dreams of things that don’t yet exist, artists are still human. 

We get sad. We get happy. We get sick. We get TIRED. 

We’re flawed and fleshy meat-sacks, just like you.

Surprise…surprise… 

The all-encompassing obsessions that we chase through the no-man’s-land that is nascent creativity, claw into with hardening grit, and mourn via varied viscous liquids don’t make us superhuman (…though the things we create may sometimes argue otherwise). 

It’s a haul and, unlike the average worker who can kind of pinpoint periods of perilous work and temporary reprieve, an artist’s mind is ALWAYS on the clock. There are no breaks. There are no days off. There’s no such thing as relaxation (—even amidst the inevitable addictions or endless quirks that we leverage to offset standard anxieties (eg., money, housing, bills, food, marketing, family, friends, self-care, mental health, romantic relationships, and OH YEAH! …Creating the things that’ve indirectly put us in the likely disadvantaged positions we often find ourselves in)). 

Now, obviously there are those (who don’t know better) who may think these problems are easily solved… 

“Get a day job!” (…many of us have one that’s either degrading and underpaying or so time-consuming that we end up creating AROUND the job)—too many years of that and you’re not “a writer who cleans,” you’re “a janitor who writes.” Not that that’s a bad thing, but it can make one feel as if they’ve missed the plot, boarded the wrong plane, and/or spawn suspicions of dissociated self-delusion. That’s not the easiest headspace to create from. 

“Find a work/life balance.” Again, that’s easier said than done. While some creative minds can manage that level of technical compartmentalization, many are simply endless hurricanes of thought. Imagine standing in the eye of the storm with two half-full buckets and an intention to catch every raindrop…then ALL OF A SUDDEN Timmy or Tanya from “back in the day” want to catch up…or someone gets sick…or birthdays, holidays, fiestas, siestas, etc… I’M TRYING TO CONTAIN A STORM, DAMN IT!!! 

I’m not saying that it’s right; I’m just telling you how it feels. 

“Set a routine!” Yeah… about that… As frustrating as it is, my particular brain is an asshole. If I schedule myself to write from 2pm – 4pm, my mind will invariably want to write either before 2pm or after 4pm. It isn’t a lack of discipline, per se…but rather an aversion to self-imposed pressure. I imagine that I’m not the only one like this. The point is, routines can be a psychological minefield. Again, not the greatest mindset for “free thought” (—particularly if you’re conscientious). It’s like playing tag with inspiration.

I won’t go on forever with myriad reasons why there’s no solitary solution beyond success. Even then, the problems escalate. The risk increases. The pressures expand. The glutes clench tighter. The point is that it’s pretty tough unless you’re willing to sacrifice some sleep, relationships, comfort, and sanity.

We become tireless by necessity—desperate to catch the swell raindrops as they fall. Not fueled by the art, but by the fear of never seeing it completed.

But that’s just what this life is. I chose it. Can’t complain too much or too loud about it.

It’s either this, or… I honestly don’t even know. Retail? Fast food?? Crypto???

I’d rather swallow an active beehive.

Until Next Time,

—Antwan Crump

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