Midwest Mary

A writer died and met St. Peter at the pearly gates. St. Peter told the writer that she’d be going to heaven but would satisfy her curious mind by showing her hell before entering.

The writer walked into hell and was horrified to see all the souls with beads of sweat pouring from them as they frantically kept writing, writing, writing at their desks for all eternity.

“Wow,” remarked the writer. “I’m glad I’m not going there.”

Then St. Peter opened the gates of heaven and led the writer to a room where, again, souls were frantically writing, writing, writing at their desks.

“I don’t understand,” exclaimed the writer. “How is this different from hell?”

St. Peter responded, “In heaven, all the writers get published.”

*

Without a doubt, my mother loved me, but she did not understand me. She found me odd, especially when it came to my need to write, which I’ve wanted to do as long as I can remember. When I was a child, I’d either write or memorize a little poem that I’d tell her before leaving for school in the morning. She realized that writing was my passion but was too practical to believe I could make a living at it.

I never fit my mother’s strict, mater-of-fact idea of a respectable employee and therefore, a responsible adult. I was, and am, a freelance writer, which meant to her that I could not adequately support my family as a single parent. She often pointed out that the department store, Penney’s, was hiring.

Many of us writers, artists, musicians, dancers, and others in the arts have college degrees or specialized training in addition to years, or decades, of experience. And yet, our employment and financial security can be uncertain. We rarely experience job security even if we once reigned at the top in our field.

However, our need to create and work in our art is necessary for us to thrive emotionally. Writing is my oxygen. I must put words together, write, rewrite, and publish, preferably, with financial gain. It’s integral to the essence of my being.

Overall, my mother noticed that artists are different. We perceive the world from an alternate perspective taking in everything and everyone around us, not only through our eyes, but also through our hearts. We are highly sensitive to universal energy, which sets us up for depression, anxiety, and sometimes, addiction to relieve the pain we absorb from others.

We are curious, playful, and compassionate. We are observers, often hiding in the background soaking in the action. We appreciate beauty, variety, the unusual, and unique. We are the explorers, risk takers, innovators, and visionaries–practical and impractical, fearful and fearless at the same time.

Yes, many of us have God-given talent and enjoy what we do, but we truly do sweat to make it as meaningful as possible. Our objective is that our pieces speak for themselves well beyond the words, the paint, the sounds, the movements.

All of this makes following an earthly clock challenging, especially when we’re in our groove. Our own sense of timing sets in, removing us further from the traditionalists. We definitely are following the beat of a different drummer, a rhythm all our own.

We can be that square peg trying to keep up with the rest who fit into all the round holes around us. And the ironic thing is, we don’t want to go into that round hole. It frustrates and irritates us. Our need is to be free, to fly.

We artists are accustomed to criticism and rejection. It’s not your response to our art that hurts us as much as our own. We are harder on ourselves than anyone else could be. It’s so difficult to walk away from a piece that can never really feel complete or perfect.

So please don’t take our need for periodic isolation and moodiness personally. We know that we can appear aloof and detached, but we are not ignoring you. We’re just lost in our art and a space neither here nor there. We’re off in other-worldly dimensions of creativity and will see you again soon.

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