New York City tastes like a bag of warm, sweet cashews from a street vendor and sounds like a gaggle of cackling teenage girls trying to carry on loud enough to
attract the attention of the beautiful people surrounding them. It smells like dryer sheets wafting puffs of flowery scents from laundromats and feels like Antarctica at the moment (it was around 32/0 yesterday). It feels like inspiration.
Although I had big plans to get back into the script earlier this week, coming into the city was exactly what I required… it fixes me. And regardless of how many times you can say ‘I’m better I’m better I’m better…’ when you start working as an artist, you know when you really are ready or when you’re fooling yourself.
Since I arrived in the States in October, this is the first proper ‘break’ I’ve had. Once again there are new realizations I’ve discovered about my work and my Self. I don’t think artists are able to seperate themselves from their work, you literally live and breath it. Pretty much every experience I have results in some form of writing whether that’s script, short story, novel, poem, or even blog entry.
There’s a deep fear that I harbour, not about failure, it’s about not being true to myself. I don’t believe it’s possible to ‘fail’ at life, every day presents a challenge so to me, every day is a success. It is an odd existence though, and it’s even stranger feeling like before you can support yourself in the world doing what you’re good at and what you believe in… you have to prove it somehow. To who? I’m still figuring that out perhaps.