I read an interesting post on HONY which I shared on my Facebook page.
A gentleman is explaining that quality art comes from the dark and pining minds of people who feel they don’t belong in their artistic community. He expresses that being called an artist was the worst thing anyone could have said to him as it gave him a sense of accomplishment where he felt he didn’t need to try anymore. This spoke to me immensely.

Almost all the time do I feel inadequate as a writer – I’m currently at the stage where I’m looking back at my draft thinking ‘Oh lord, what am I doing with my life?’
The HONY post made me remember that despite the struggles and the deep down festering shortfall, I actually enjoy being a student. I enjoy inspiration from what seems like this intangible and unreachable quality of others.

A few nights ago my husband showed me a video on Facebook of a woman singing and playing bass with an insane level of talent that makes playing funk bass look easy (I’m so sorry, Facebook refreshed and I couldn’t find the link to post here). I watched it and thought – yep I’m done, don’t need to play music when there’s talent like that *flips table*. However that artist is probably looking up to her own idols and thinking…

We need to be students ALL THE TIME. I must like it; I went back to uni a second time which was like me volunteering to be dunked underwater by a perpetual motion engine. So there has to be something appealing in the suffering student.

My student self:

I completely fangirled at Supanova listening to author’s give their advice.

Listening to my sister talk about how every movement the rider makes on a horse is critical to the rider’s success – not just because she knows what she’s talking about, but how she speaks as the young woman she’s turning into.

Walking around the Musée d’Orsay and not only taking in the artists, but taking in the excitement and explanations of my cousin that has her own passions for the paintbrush.

Listening to my family talk about the past including their outfits, hair, drunken shenanigans, travel, and domestic violence.

Walking up the tight tower stairs of the Arc de Triomphe, Notre Dame, The Vatican and the York Minster knowing others did eons ago.

Pouring a pint at the Guinness Storehouse.

When my husband plays guitar.

Listening to a pianist play to three people in Venice.

Meeting WA author Norman Jorgenson at the hotel bar while on my honeymoon and asking loads of probable dumb questions.

Standing in one of my in-laws’ paddocks in the Wheatbelt.

Watching my friend’s Snapchats about his PHD in science and having no idea what he’s on about.

Jumping off a cliff.

Watching my sister-in-law make her own mayo and serve it in a vintage jar like it’s no big deal.

I could go on and on and on. Maybe it’s not so bad to be found wanting.