Artists and procrastination

Haven't put anything up on this blog for a while. Bought a house, kayaked a lot, generally very busy. I plan to start remedying that, starting with this post.

Tripped across a fascinating quote the other day:

The truly creative mind in any field is no more than this: a human creature born abnormally, inhumanly sensitive. To him a touch is a blow, a sound is a noise, a misfortune is a tragedy, a joy is an ecstasy, a friend is a lover, a lover is a god, and failure is death. Add to this cruelly delicate organism the overpowering necessity to create, create, create—so that without the creating of music or poetry or books or buildings or something of meaning, his very breath is cut off from him. He must create, must pour out his creation. By some strange, unknown, inward urgency, he is not really alive unless he is creating.

It's by Pearl Buck, an author I'm not otherwise familiar with, although I'm enticed to read some of her work now.

It certainly explains a lot about me, and I'm shocked that I never realized it before. I mean, when everything I do is more important to me than it is to anyone else, there's trouble brewing with every emotional encounter. If you've ever had the experience of caring for someone who didn't reciprocate, try to imagine that with every single person you meet.

In any event, I think it's information I can use to manage my life better. Look inward for the problem, then outward for the solution.