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.

Goodbye, Anne (2009-2019)
Fear of making trade-offs to get best life leaves us with nothing
Romantic love is part obsession, part reality — and part madness
Best way to fight terror? Turn off your TV and get back to real life
Sudden realization of hunger for taste of kindred soul is killing me
If we always beat ourselves up, how will we ever heal and grow?
Here’s a hot news flash: State ‘industrial policy’ still doesn’t work
Another ‘Atlas Shrugged’ moment: ‘Reasonable Profits Board’ proposed
Illegal business: City ‘protects’ public from popular ‘juke joint’