I, like most artists, am hopelessly insecure. Many people do not see that. My wife, who does see it, says it is like my care and compassion for others. It is hidden behind a natural skepticism and general confidence that belies the truth of my fragile soul. It is often true of artists that they are sensitive individuals looking for validation and acceptance. This is very true of me.
I woke today, a day when the second novel of my series is released, in a near panic and anxiety over the thought that "no one will buy my book." I want people to read it. I want that far more than I want to make money on the book, though that would also be nice. When I was a professional actor, I used to write poems. These were poems meant only for me, and they talked about the feeling of being on stage, the feeling when one hears the applause, the laughter, or the crying (if you are really good). I am addicted to appreciation. There is literally nothing I like better than hearing that people like my work. It fills me up to the top with joy and happiness. The problem is that cup which holds the joy and happiness is full of leaks, and I constantly need to refill the cup.
So, all day I have been freaking out. In the early afternoon, I went to apologize to my wife for my weird behavior. She looked at me, smiled, and told me, "That's okay. You did this every time you release a story."
I was, naturally, flabbergasted. I asked, "I do? With each story?" She nodded and I questioned, "What is wrong with me?"
She smiled again, and said, "You are an artist. I know exactly how it feels. And, I know it is coming. I began preparing for your freak-out yesterday."
My wife is a brilliant visual artist. She works in paint, photo, digital design, and she teaches art-journaling. Having her affirm my artistry was really nice. But, realizing I am this transparent is worrisome. My choices were to find a way to hide this part of myself or own it. So, here I am, owning it. I am putting this out there, so my readers can know a little bit more about me. Also, so they can know that the simplest phrase can mean the world to me. "I liked it" is all it takes. If you can scrape together $2.99 to read Fear of Mystics, or $0.99 to read Age of Mystics (or either of the short stories), please drop a line to let me know what you think. It will calm this ravenous beast in my chest, and help me immensely. Thanks a ton!
Find my work here!
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