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.

I want the culture to value smart women more than ‘hot’ women
Epiphany: Was it so bad that I used to work toward perfection?
A month after my father’s death, it doesn’t feel real that he’s gone
What if Jesus was serious about commands he gave his followers?
Visit from his dead parents shook father’s disbelief in supernatural
Little girl helped me figure out why I’m not attracted to her mom
These aren’t revolutionaries; they’re nothing but thugs and looters
Anatomy of a dishonest political mailer from this week’s election