Give the artist time, and they will do nothing. Let them imitate life instead of vomiting it, even if it accosts their own lives. Great art is either a plagiarism or a revolution. I’ve been trying long and hard to get my writings printed on a 5×8 booklet of about 200 pages and now I’m being paid to write fiction. The difference is that I don’t have to try anymore. It’s terrible. Being given money just for the amount of words I use rather than which and why I used them. I’ve stated it before that I can only write in a state of despair, but sadly, I’m in a state of contentment. I’ve no inspiration.
I helped watch my friend’s children tonight, and I felt I was better at being a child than an adult. Picasso once said, “every child is an artist, but the trick is staying a child.” He didn’t live in a world where everyone wanted to be an artist. It’s almost as if being a subordinate is the new art. Maybe I’m venting, but I think most of you are actually agreeing. Right now, I’d much rather enjoy a glass of gin and a cigarette than to write for my employer. Like I sold him the buckets of paint in my heart for a paycheck. I suppose I can look on the brightside; I’m a paid writer. (blows raspberries)