I grew up thinking I was a disappointment to my family. Maybe I was; I've decided I can't really tell about these things. It's just that every time I'd go to my dad with a pretty picture I'd drawn he'd say something like, "That's really good, honey. Maybe you can turn it into a greeting card and sell it to Hallmark!" or some such. I'd be devastated, and he'd be confused, and we weren't making sense to each other at all. I interpreted his responses as meaning my art was only good enough if I could make money from it. He was probably trying to say how lucky I was to be so talented at something other people would love to pay me to do.

Pretty sad, huh? I struggled with that for so long. I'd pick up one thing, learn to do it pretty well, get to the point where everyone was telling me I could really do something with it, and drop it. Drawing, calligraphy, cartooning, pastels, watercolors, oils, pen and ink; you name it and I can confidently create something most people would say was good. And yet I don't think most of my friends know. I'm a secret artist. My shameful pleasure is to draw. I give or throw away everything. I don't have too much around the house.

Here we get into the question of whether it's fear, guilt, or shame operating. Fear of competition? Pshaw, I don't think so. I was a professional singer for many years during and after university. Can we say non-stop auditioning? Can we say major competition? These days, I write, submit articles and stories, collect my rejection notices with no loss of faith in my abilities, and continue writing. I learn to write by writing and reading, so that's what I do. Obviously, fear of rejection isn't keeping me from putting my stuff on the line. Guilt is the old clothing I put on when I need motivation to do something I'd just as soon procrastinate on. Not much of a motivator, but then it's not much of a burden, either. I slough it right off when I need to. Shame? Well, okay, maybe shame. But there's nothing to be ashamed of now. This unhappiness about whether it's okay to be an artist is so old, so outgrown in so many ways. The echo of it haunts me, but I don't believe it's really keeping me from pursuing fine art.

I suppose by now it's sloth, and having lots to do besides sit in my room and draw. Also, I am embracing the graphics possibilities on the web with gusto, and I'll gladly sell you my services as a designer. Although I tend not to think of it this way, being a travel agent is a career, and I look in the classified ads under "management/professional," not clerical or sales when I look for a job. So even though I didn't set out to have a career I certainly found one, and even though I've spent years feeling ashamed of my artistic talents, I rejoice in them now. And my father thinks I've turned out very well indeed, what with my ability to support myself and be a productive member of society and having a happy, stable homelife, and all.

Maybe I'll try a bit of drawing again. Put it up on my web page. See if I'm really over the association of art and success and ambition and artificial goals. It would be nice to just draw again without wondering what it's "for." It used to make me very happy. And happiness is my goal.