The Artist Starving Merely By Virtue of his Slowdown in Writing.


Hey, it's the economic climate after all. That's where it began you see, when the economy started taking a dive. Into the tank. But it wasn't, it became less than expedient to write it seemed. What did the Artist really have to say that he hadn't said already. Noone wants to listen to the broken record, not the least of whom is the Artist himself. But in so doing, he knows he's depriving himself and his fans of his artifice. Which he is also trying to improve upon. Ecchh, you see it's a messy cycle and the artist himself abhors -- yes, it's the right word-- the development of the cycle. So he comes around full circle. Just because he does not want to get stuck in cycles, particularly ones where he finds his emotional being starving itself to death, he decides he has to take his pen and walk again. Stagger though he will, Use maybe week verbs, battle his inner critic, which is a staunch Torie supporter from the British Parliament, a man who wears wigs and a monocle. A real jerkoff if you'd ever meet him. He hangs out with the Fashion Police, The Committee of Mortal & Venial Sin Establishers, and of course, The Weight Control Nazis. His affiliations are with the Grammar Stiflers. At any rate, The Artist understands that from time to time he will have to confront and sometimes undermine this Inner Critic character. But some things cannot be avoided, should not be avoided at any cost. This isn't a message about talent in any way. The talent is there and has been there for years, but it's how it is used that is in question. Not a question. It needs to be used. Now he takes on another villain, that of the Publishing Department, should he make his thoughts publicly known or keep them within the realm of his own world of ideas. He knows why he likes to publish, because then it isn't something he should ever feel ashamed of, or ever doubt its validity. If he publishes, then he gives it up to the ether. For its own usage. Et cetera.