Cashier: Hey, do you go to the AI?
Me: Ohhh, no.
Cashier: Ah, okay. You look like you do. You have the starving artist look.
Me: Yeah, I think I rock it pretty well. You won’t catch me dead there, though, because they don’t think writing is an art.
Cashier: *stops ringing up the next customer and stares at me* What?!
Me: Yeah, I was in a live chat with a rep and they said that they “Don’t cater to that kind of artist”.
Cashier: *still not ringing up the next customer* But that’s…that’s bullshit!
Me: I know, I’ve written a novel! I told the rep to go write a novel for me and then tell me that’s not an art.
Cashier: *finally starts scanning again* People can draw a stick figure and call it art. Why isn’t writing an art?
Customer behind me, very quietly: An entirely black canvas entitled “The Soul of an Evil Man at Midnight”. It sells for millions. Artists everywhere weep.
there is a painting here at the Museum of Arts Houston where it is a large, white canvas with a single black dot in the center. Sold for hundreds of thousands, so I’m told.
I have created feeling, soul-filled people living in a desolate realm of disease, corruption and regret. In words. But hey, so what?