On Being an Artist

Just a little over seven years ago, a friend of mine named Harry died. He was only in his 30s when he passed away, but in the short time we were friends, he inspired me. 

Harry was an artist in every sense of the word. He had long hair, donned a leather jacket from the 80s and rode a motorcycle. He taught sword fighting one might see at Renaissance festivals, he drew and panted; he drank enumerable cups of coffee and he played the guitar. In fact, he was playing when my first, long-term boyfriend kissed me; like most artists, he ignored us and let young love blossom. What inspired me most, however, was that Harry was a writer – just like I wanted to be.  

 

Even though I was only 19, Harry treated me as an adult. We could talk about anything and I never felt like I was being judged. The last time I saw him, I had gone over to his apartment after my morning creative writing class ended at Austin Peay. He made us both of bowl of cereal and apologized that he didn’t have anything warmer to eat considering the cool, October weather. I didn’t mind. After I had a few bites of cereal, he dug out the beginnings of a vampire story he was writing. I was one of two people to read it (the other being his long-time girlfriend).

 

As not to give away his plot, I will simply say that the story was about a vampire couple who would meet at a playground at night. They were good vampires, and I am sorry that their story never played out. Two weeks later, Harry was dead.

 

I don’t write about this because I want sympathy or emails of condolence. I write this to honor his memory and what he left behind. As this column was written, I sat ay my desk looking at a stack of vampire books I inherited from him as well as my own unfinished vampire story (if Anne Rice and Stephenie Meyer can do it, so can I). What I got from him, however, is much more than a stack of books can supply.

 

Harry once told me it was not the successes that made the artist, but the failures. He did not mean it to be cynical or negative, but the exact opposite. That man collected his failures. He collected things such as rejection letters because it showed that he tried. So, I pass along the same to you.

 

It is not the successes that made the artist, but the failures, because it shows that you tried. At least if you try, you will never regret or look back and wonder what might have been.

 

People in your life might have told you to give up your pipe dream. They said you should act like an adult and stop living a fantasy. I say the opposite. Tell someone your dream – push it to them from across the table at breakfast. You will find someone to support you and that will hold you accountable when it comes to finishing what you started.

 

The book I am writing now might be so terrible that my ex-professors will pretend they never taught me. My parents may be the only people on the planet that will buy my book. But for now, I have people urging me on. Friends randomly text message me to see how it’s going and others are eager to help if I need them to help. Even if I fail, I will have tried, and that is all that anyone can ask for.

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