It’s been almost 30 years since I figured out — much to my surprise — that what I really wanted more than anything else vocationally was to be an artist. And I’ve spent most of the years since then explaining to myself over and over why this isn’t possible.
After enough reasonable explanation, I start getting numb to what I want. I forget what it feels like. I turn my attention elsewhere and tell myself that realistic people do other things. Maybe I can make filmmaking a hobby if I do really well for awhile at something I hate.
Doesn’t that make sense? I can make a few hundred thousand dollars a year as a real estate broker. How about that? Isn’t that more realistic? Sure. Why not. I’ll do that. It all makes so much sense. And it sounds so responsible.
And so I start burying what I know — every now and then, at least — that I want. Until somebody comes along and pokes a stick at something I try hard not to look at.
That’s what happened today.

ABC execs’ desire to delay interview shows misunderstanding of their job
Existential crisis makes me ask: Can I ever trust you to love me?
Genuine love is always extreme — and it rarely makes any sense
All offers eventually expire, so do your best to ‘come before winter’
Achievement or scam? Designer invents perfume you can’t smell
We like to think we’re complex, but personality gurus pegged me
I’ve lost all interest in begging anyone to fix the political system
Financially struggling woman jailed over unpaid fine for junky yard
In a cold and disconnected world, it’s very simple to fake happiness