A lot of people who see my art tell me that I have a gift. It feels good to hear things like that. But to be perfectly honest, often I don't feel like a have a gift. In fact, sometimes I feel downright cursed.

Sometimes, I wish I could just put away the pencils and go to bed at a reasonable time, instead of sitting there doodling until 2 am, leaving me with mere 5 hours of sleep. Sometimes, I wish I could just ignore my brain when it decides to have this New Great Idea and tells me I must sketch it this very minute, which means asking the husband to watch the kids, which means having less time with them. Sometimes, I wish I could save up the money for a nice family getaway instead of blowing it on art supplies and books, or investments that won't ever make me rich. Sometimes, I wish I were nothing more than a simpleminded housewife whose only aspiration is to catch the next episode of her favorite soap opera.

Sometimes, I wish I were one of those people who go through life without giving any thought as to what they're contributing to the world and the society, what kind of trace they'll leave upon history; people whose only responsibility is to go to work 9 to 5 to provide for their family, and whose biggest dilemma is whether they should ask for mayo or mustard at the checkout counter.

I'm generally a happy person. I feel blessed with an amazing husband who shares my world view and supports me in all my artistic endeavors. I'm blessed with amazing kids. I'm blessed with a comfortable lifestyle where I am able to do what I love. "Normal" things and activities do not interest me. Possessions don't interest me; I treasure things that offer intellectual stimulation, such as books, movies, games, and I love items that have sentimental value. But I can't care less about the cats shredding my upholstery, and would have a fit if my husband blew his hard-earned cash on a diamond ring. I don't care whether my children's outfits are perfectly matched. I don't care if there's a dust bunny under my desk, or fingerprints on my windows. I don't care about designer labels. I don't care about social gatherings. I don't care about vacation cruises. I don't care about having a huge house with a manicured lawn and color-coordinated furniture. I don't care about making my kids into little chore-laden activity machines - as long as they grow up to be happy and to do what they love, I'll also be happy. I care about health. I care about good food. I care about intellectual nourishment. I care about spontaneity and fun. And let me tell you, we may not sit down for dinner every night or go on vacations every summer, but there's more love and happiness in this house than in many houses where families do dine and vacation together.

I entertain no delusions, and realize that my artistic nature is what makes me this way. There's a muse constantly sitting on my shoulder. Because I have no choice but to listen to it, many things most people would consider "normal" and "human" are simply of no interest or importance to me. Buying new brushes holds more excitement than buying new clothes. Finishing a drawing is more important than getting a good night's sleep. Sitting alone writing is more important than being at some party sipping martinis and making small talk. Sacrificing financial stability and prosperity in order to continue doing what I love is more important than going out there and getting a "real" job.

Most days I'm content being this way. But whenever I am confronted with "normal" people who do "normal" things, the muse on my shoulder turns her back on me, the fickle bitch. She doesn't pat me on the shoulder, telling me to just shrug and move on. She doesn't whisper words of encouragement into my ear. And that's when all those fears and doubts come swimming to the surface. I begin feeling selfish, childish, and foolish. I feel like all those "normal" people have the right idea about life, and I am the freak with absolutely no clue, drifting through life like a junkie unable to control herself when the addiction demands a new fix.

If you're a creative person, you're a junkie, and your creativity is your drug of choice. If you can accept the fact that your muse will compel and lead you for the rest of your life, then you can turn your drug into a gift. But if you can't, if every day of your life is spent battling doubt and fear, then you'll probably end up with a curse.

I'm not sure which one it is for me. I'm not sure which one makes a better artist. All I know is that for as long as there are beautiful things in the world, those things must be painted. And for as long as there are paints and brushes in my drawer, I will continue painting.

And when I'm in that timeless place in between the canvas and my mind, I no longer want the answer. I can fly, if only for a short while. And that is quite enough.

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