Monday, September 16, 2013

Write. Don't stop.

My dad's "cousin" was awesome.
Dad has always brought the dude up in conversation, since he remembers the guy quite fondly.
They met when Dad first moved over here, at 16 or so. Dad moved in with the only relative living in Vegas, his aunt. The guy, Daniel, was his aunt's husband's nephew.
Dad was apparently the introvert, who would not speak a word.
Dad's uncle told his nephew to spark a conversation with Dad, but Daniel complained "I talk to him! He just never answers back!"
And so, a friendship sparked from there.

Daniel is a total artist... what we've all grown to think of as an "artist"... just like they're depicted on film.
Daniel is a patient, quiet guy. His voice is... gentle... like a narrator in Mexican films... it's a soothing sound. He takes time to explain concepts and ideas... he doesn't force others to talk.
He sets this air of... comfort... ease... calm.

We spent out three days and two nights in a huge group. He's married to a total extrovert-- a woman who is clearly dominant, but not in a condescending way, but a firm... guiding way.
They don't force conversation... they just talk and laugh until finally, the people present feel comfortable enough to add to the conversation.
We'd all sit at the bars, restaurant tables, pool side, our kitchen, the bedroom, together. Laughing. Lounging. Sharing. And always with a cup of coffee in hand, or a glass of wine (I don't particularly enjoy wine, but I drank a total of two bottles on my own in those two days-- it took me half a day to get comfortable with the company).
It was SO strange... and comfortable. I can't stress it enough-- "comfortable."

He told stories of the oddities he used to do, like plan his vacations to coincide with rock concerts in LA so he could attend.
He talked about his years writing political pieces... and being advised by certain government officials to adopt a pseudonym in order to avoid any danger.
He talked about his years of study with numerous outstanding Mexican authors and poets... their chill time.
He talked about his "lowly" new job he adores-- photography.

Daniel: Jesse, why didn't you ever tell me you had an artist in your family? She writes. She paints. She draws. She plays an instrument. She's quiet and shy. She's... undoubtedly an artist.
Dad: Because I didn't know!
Me: Because you never asked.
Daniel: So, why did you go down the science route, if you don't mind me asking?
Me: Because... despite teachers telling my parents I was naturally gifted at anything art related, they told me it was a hobby. Since I had an ease for learning science and math, and I saw the difficulty so many of my classmates had with those subjects, I decided to take advantage of that "ability" instead...

The reason we even got into the subject of my writing, is because they were trying to hook me up with a job with one of their best friends, a French marine biologist currently studying... god, I think it's some whale, I didn't pay attention. The more they talked about hooking me up, already planning my relocation to the Mayan Riviera, the more I felt like passing out-- from the distress.
Daniel: Oh! He has been looking for assistants for so long. He's been having real difficulties finding anyone qualified for the positions. He'll be ecstatic to learn I just found one right now. He'll move you out here in a heartbeat.
SCIENCE?! NO NO NO. OH MY GOD. FUCK! This all sounds so wonderful and cool... but... I don't love it... and I'm going to be such a dick to turn it down... fuck fuck fuck... I'm about to get sucked back into science... fuck fuck FUCK! How do I say no?!
Just as everyone started getting excited FOR me, while I started feeling more panicked and suffocated, I had to speak up.
Me: That's SO cool... but... what I really love is writing... I... don't think I would be able to... you know... put my heart into anything else...

I could feel my eyes watering... and my body getting shaky. I fucking hate speaking up.
Then there was a shift in the feel of the room-- the mood. It was like I dropped the biggest revelation on... everyone.
Here I thought you were just a weirdo... but you're really just... an artist! OH MY GOD, AnoMALIE, I finally get you!
That was what I saw in my dad's eyes and my aunt and uncle's eyes.
And I guess it was a big secret to reveal... as much as I love to write, it's something I keep hidden from nearly everyone. I don't want anyone to know that shit about me... it makes me feel stupid... vulnerable and stupid.
I know I often over-share on here, it HAS gotten me in trouble numerous times, but in real life, I'm really very reserved and quiet. I hardly share facts about me-- I just sit there and patiently listen to others speak.

Dad: Oh wow, baby. Oh wow. I have a writer in my family... a poet!
Me: No. A writer. I write stories. I only write. I can't do poetry for shit.

And so there I sat, getting interrogated, from what I liked to write (short stories), about what I liked to write (mostly dark comedy), and when I learned I liked to write (umm... since second grade, when I was first forced to keep a journal).

Then we got into what it was like to be an "artist." How one feels our "work" is part of us, therefore, we have difficulty putting a price on things... usually resulting in us GIVING away our work... because it's so personal to us.
Daniel's Wife: Hence why artists are often destitute and living in poverty. They have great talent, but they don't know HOW to sell it. It's why I sell all of Daniel's stuff. He does the work, and he passes the clients to me. I look at the work, and put a price on it... never telling Daniel how much the piece sold for, because he always feels bad... like I overpriced his work, but I KNOW it was the correct price because I'm an art dealer. I know what his work is worth on the market.

It was like they all lived in my fucking head and read my mind.
I've never sold my work... well, with the exception of two photographs, but even then, I didn't put the price on them... I was shocked they sold at all.
The paintings I've given others have all been gifts... I would never put a price on them... precisely because they're so personal to me... they're a secretive, sensitive part of me I don't want to put a price on.
My stories? I write them up, edit, then never look at them again... I feel stupid re-reading any of my stories. That vulnerable shit I talked about earlier.

So, anyway, my days were spent talking about all this... my secret life of an "artist" came out (ta-da! AnoMALIE's big ol' secret: I'm not gay, I'm a lowly bummy "artist"), and I was given mad support... from everybody (this is where I was given all the information on the programs in Mexico and the fucking awesome opportunities Daniel has for me because writing is his forte. I just have to get my Mexican citizenship in order... and move out there... which... is cool... but... still makes me... hesitate).

Dad: I just want you to be happy, Mija. I'll pay any price for that. I'll take care of anything and everything.

I fucking cried with joy... like a total pussy.

And the phrase that was mentioned most?
"Don't. Stop. Writing."

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