June 19, 2001

I could write about the disaster at the Asian Art Museum four to five years ago, or the time someone tried to run me off the road about two to three years ago, but the story needs to be just right.

Writing is frustrating and unsatisfying, but I have to do it, otherwise I'll be even more frustrated or unsatisfied.

I never really understood that fact until recently. Back in college, I wrote little fractured fairy tales and revelled in it like a little boy who just discovered girls. And there was a little guilt too. Why was I enjoying this completely useless pursuit when I was in school to earn a degree and obtain a profession?

Then, like a born-again, I put the pen and paper away to finish my degree and tried to be a good little boy.

That didn't last too long.

I delved into the art world with painting, drawing, and working at a gallery. I pretended that I was a visual artist, even though I sucked. I was trying so hard to convince myself not to write that the desire came out in other ways.

Then I put the desire away again, convinced that it was time to get a job, be responsible, and stop being poor. Settle down, be boring.

When my life turned upside-down this February, I realized it isn't about the money, it's about the heart. It's about passion, following that desire.

It's kinda like sex, except that I write way, way, WAY more than I have sex.

Sigh.