Life is that thing happening around all of the other things we’re trying to get done to make a “life” for ourselves. Rather than being poetic, it mainly just sucks. Never did I think I’d be living the romantic notion of a work of literature, a written dream of life, where I’m constantly half struggling, half glued in uncertainty. It’s that kind of existence glorified only by words – nothing romantic about the thing itself. We should be firmer with children that artistic misery is in fact miserable. Steer clear of a vocation in the arts. Unless other people with similar ambitions are reading this going, “Oh no, I’m almost always happy.” You should give a TED talk or something.
Anyway, this is a long form excuse for seriously slacking with To Do What We Love. I’ll make it up to you. More posts to come in January. You can check out News Cult, too. I’ve been regularly writing Opinion pieces there while neglecting you. Life isn’t fair. What can I say?