success...

I watched a Woody Allen documentary this morning because everyone is outside and I am not into heat and sun... just comfort. I got to thinking about my own works of art whether it be a novel, a painting or a song I write, and the idea of being honest in it. I've looked for outside validation in my life, and have this odd personality of the Christ and the anti-Christ with regard to my art.

I have this grandiose view of myself but at the same time feel that I am a complete idiot who needs years of therapy, validation from strangers, and medication. I got to thinking after watching Woody. After his Manhatten film debut there was attention - lots of it. Everyone loved it and there were many awards and accolades to follow. Woody hated it. He didn't think it was so honest and shook his head with disgust. His next film was Stardust Memories which everyone despised except Woody. Art is personal. It is not for anyone else but you, your typewriter, your paintbrush or your instrument. If others enjoy it, yay... but if they don't, it is a good thing to let that go. Easier said than done.

I am always asked, "how is your book doing?" I don't have a clue and I don't care. I mean, if it were making gobs of money and I could retire in Capris then perhaps I would give a shit but I am not foolish enough to think I am a real writer any more than I am a real painter. I like expressing myself and (beyond that) if you give me a muse I might just go on for hours with my dog and my bone. Lately my muse is just being alive and breathing which is quite nice after last year's ordeal. People are depressed and need medication to get up in the morning. I just need my muse, a ripe peach for breakfast, and someone to hug.

What is success anyway?