My father’s always considered himself an artist. That’s a funny statement to say because I wonder if any other people experienced the identity crisis of an aspiring artist. We are searching for careers that mean something, and how wonderful to pusue “the one thing I knew I was good at” drawing. My father had business cards that said his name with word Artist below it. So what does it mean to be an artist?

The paintings of my fathers that filled the house would gawk at you as you walked by. Subtle deformities and eerie extra eyes made me want to look away.

I enjoy writing. Why? Because it’s a form of creative expression. It is my art. But what is art to me? It is raw and emotion-envoking. My work should display my insecurities, my darkest thoughts, and my most internal battles.

Subconcious roadblocks are just fueled by perfectionism. It’s much more daunting to approach if the nature of the task is to be perfect. I allow you in, dear internet.