What is it with this story, I question again. It hounds me, haunts me – the premise, the title, the characters, but the theme eludes me. And this is problem, I think, the fact that I can’t find the true essence of the story. The sun has finished setting now and the studio slowly fills with evening darkness. I roll my shoulders to release some of the tension and then lean back over my keyboard. I don’t know what to write. I have two characters, each of which have starred in different aborted beginnings, and I do not know which one is the star of the story. Who’s story is it, I wonder, Rogue or Katlin’s? And what about that third time travel assassin that creeped in last week? I would like to forget it, just get up and walk away and go and get a real job, but I know I would end up feeling creatively stifled and miserable like I have at every job. For some reason, this story wants to be told, and I’m the one who has to tell it.

I stretch my neck, moving it side to side, hoping inspiration will hit. I sip cold Starbucks coffee, waiting. I turn on my antique Victorian lamp as the studio gets darker. Inspiration does not hit. Finally, in frustration, I try an old writing trick I know. I set my cell phone alarm for ten minutes, put fingers to keyboard and start writing about the story, without editing, without stopping, letting anything come. Slowly, as type, the story begins to take shape and create meaning in my mind. I begin to understand what it is about the story that has fascinated me and what I want to tell. The main premise takes shape, the plot begins to evolve and scenes get outlined. Rogue and Katlin stay, but switch roles and the third assassin becomes a pivotal player. The pet behind me is now chewing on her cage bars to get my attention. I continue to write, barely noticing her. Professional athletes talk about being ‘in the zone’, and a similar thing happens with writers when we are fully engaged in their work, when the outside world ceases to exist. The pet chews and squeaks and I, I write. By the time the alarm goes off I finally, after nearly six months, have a clear picture of the full essence of the novel. I stretch my back again I glance at the clock. An hour has gone by since I sat down at the computer. It feels like five minutes. I don’t remember working with such interest and focus in months, and with such a sense of satisfied completion. My art career was filled with half finished pieces that needed the last boring bit of layering done that I would have to force myself through, or, more often than not, put off until all inspiration was dead and then start a new drawing, just to repeat the process.

The pet now resorts to ringing the bell at the bottom of her hay bell. “I know, I know,” I say to her as I reengage with real life. “I’m a terrible owner.” I ruffle her nose and pour her food, my mind still back with the story and I feel excitement for the next day when I can go back into the creative trance.

I notice that it is a newly built but and is still heavy with new bus smell of fresh upholstery and new rubber flooring. I grab a seat in the back and watch as Beacon Hill Park slides by and out of view as we turn the corner. I am still as unmotivated today as I have been since hanging my art display, as I sit, unsure of what my next career move will be. Lately I have had an odd obsession with my online story telling, part of a unique underground culture of video game story tellers. I enjoy the ability to create fiction and art at the same time, and also how immediately you reach your intended audience. Last night, though, I realized that I have grown tired of writing to a teenage video game audience and want once again write to adults.

The bus stops briefly in James Bay village. I notice the “Traveling Bean” coffee shop and remember it was the one I was supposed to do a story on for the paper I briefly volunteered at. I did not go through with it though, as, at the time, it was not creative enough to capture my artist interest. The bus pulls out and I stare out the window at the increasingly downtown scenery. It is new, this sudden desire to write again. For years my writing has lain doormat and forgotten inside of me, despite being my original first love. Over the last few months though, the desire to craft scenes with words has burst forth again, the writing now grown up inside of me and ready to reenter the world.

The bus turns on to Douglas street and I am hit with a sudden frenzy of traffic and after school swarms of teenagers. I leave the peace of James bay behind and am thrown back into city life. I get off at my stop and avoid being trampled by the overcrowded downtown bus stop. A man walking beside me is whistling and I find the high pitch sound ear splitting. My brain is tired from the recent four months of intense creative energy and wants peace and rest. I turn quickly off of Douglas and head up Fort towards home. Although I know it is time to come out of my down spell and get back to my creative goals, my mind still hesitates, unsure of what those creative goals are. Another art display? A novel? The night before I emailed a few coffee shops about another display, but in the morning I found myself once again at the computer writing the latest installment in my teenage read online drama.

I reach my building, put the key in the lock, and go in. I enter the elevator and hit ’3′. When I get off I have to avoid the maintenance worker who is painting the hallway. I carefully edge by his equipment, careful not to touch the walls. I don’t need more paint on my clothes than what I’ve already put there myself. I go into my apartment and say hello to the pet. She twitches her nose and squeaks a greeting. I drop my jacket haphazardly on the bean bag chair and go to my studio. I look at the drawing, the dark colors, the interesting heart design and know that it is one I want to finish, but at the moment….I go back to the computer to check on comments about my latest computer drama story. There is one comment saying simple, “Utterly brilliant.” I lean back in my Victorian desk chair and think that maybe fighting my desire to write is pointless and that maybe, for a bit, I should go with it. I think of the novel that has been in my head since November, that has the first two chapters written, and the novel I have already written and published. I stand up and find my notebook and go out into the last rays of sun on my balcony. I pick up a pen and begin the second aspect of my artist life.

Beside me I place an envelope full of just printed out resumes. I have gone as far as I can living off of nothing but hopes and dreams; Mr noodles and Mac and Cheese. Now I find I must face the reality of facing reality. Bills are coming due, fridges are going empty, and rent needs to be paid. I doubt my building manager will take a piece of artwork in exchange for rent, although the thought of trying amuses me and I am almost tempted.

I rest back into the suede seat, brooding now as I look thoughtfully forward at my future. I have an offer from Mokka House Shoal point for a coffee hose wide display come the end of summer and although I told them I would do it, I now wonder if the cost and work of framing and hanging so many pieces would be worth the time and cost. What tangible benefit would I get from it? I question. Most people are not like the artist friend and I; they don’t go to coffee shops to admire the artwork. No, they order coffee and bury themselves in conversation, laptops and schoolwork. As I take a sip of my own coffee, I try to distract my introspective mind by listening to the conversation around me.

Most of the ones in the coffee shop that night are UVIC students, and I listen to groups talk together about finals, term papers and grad papers. They all sound so confident, I think, so sure of themselves. They know exactly what they are majoring in, studying for, working towards; they have a concrete end in sight. And me? I’m not sure if there is an end for a professional artist. To be an artist means continual growth, change, and experimentation. We don’t get nice big PASS mark written on our latest experimental paint and glitter piece. We don’t get graded in tangible letters. We just create and throw our souls out to by judged by all of humanity. Where one person will give a pass, the other will mark the work a complete failure. I know, because I have done both to other artists.

I look out at the crowded room and all the students gathered in groups around tables. I feel envy towards them tonight, envy for the stability of their existence. Envy for the ability to be content with a normal 9-5 life. Me? I tried one month of office work and didn’t even make it through the whole month before being overcome with intense creative frustration and boredom. There are only so many ways you can file a letter. A person doesn’t necessarily make a conscious choice to be an artist I think, but sometimes art chooses them. As an artist you can force yourself to work a regular job, but for a true artist the need to create will still burn a hole inside, sometimes being let out safely and sometimes bursting and throwing your whole life into chaos like it did me. Now I sit in the ruins of the chaos wondering where to go next. I switch my gaze from the students and into the empty fireplace. The need to create is still there, the ember still glowing. No, I think, this is not the end of the dream, it is just a small detour.

…..Flashback to earlier in the evening. My creative dry spell has suddenly broken and images begin to fill my head and pour out of my hand. I sit at my art studio, lite only by a 40 watt antique lamp, and try to capture the images on the blank artist page. The images flit in my head, like elusive butterflies, with me trying to catch them and pin them down with bold strokes of blue and subtle shades of purple. Just at the height of creativity I reach the end of my sketchbook. Frustrated I flip through it, trying to find another blank page. Each page is filled with unfinished designs and abandoned drawings that were not intense enough to keep my attention. I give up finally, set the sketchbook aside and look out the patio door, to the city outside. A few people in the apartment across from me are still awake, one doing dishes, the other watching TV. I have an engagement early in the morning, and tonight I already know I will cancel it. When the butterfly images come they demand full attention, forcing me to put regular life on hold. As I look out at the city, the lampposts spots in the darkness, the staples sign a bright beacon in the distance, I wonder if artists really choose to be artists, or if it’s the art that chooses them. For true artists the need to create is as imperative as breathing, and to not create the same as suffocating. I forced myself to suffocate for years, burying my intense need to create under ‘have to’s’ and ‘should’s’ until I could hold my breathe no longer and gasped for air, causing a small earthquake in my life – jobs quit, art supplies bought, studios created. The damage has now settled and I find myself doing exactly what I should have been doing all along. There is nothing left for me to do that night, so I close the curtain, turn off the lamp and force myself to sleep.

…Flash forward to the next morning. I am jolted out of dreams by the annoying song I choose as my cell phone alarm. I awake quickly, and flip the alarm off, making a mental note to change the song. The creative fury of the night before is still swirling inside me. I wait impatiently through morning coffee for the art store to open, and as soon as my clock hits 9:30 I am dressed and in Island Blue. I quickly scan the sketchbooks, looking for the size I need. I have grown wearied with drawing large pieces. The large images bore me and I feel they cover up my true talent because I can not fill them with the intricate details that I do with my smaller pieces. With the large pieces, the mixed media becomes the focus and the drawing is secondary. I have forced myself to work in large format for monetary reasons, but realized the night before that money is not worth forcing myself to create an image that I do not believe in and holds no emotional interest for me. It becomes just a picture with no substance. I am still a naive enough artist to believe in artistic integrity.

I find the 11X14 size I need and carefully test the paper between thumb and forefinger to see the texture. It is the right texture so I buy it and am then heading up the Fort street street to Chapters. This morning I am filled with an intense drive to create and need an uncluttered and undistracted place to do it in. As I walk up the street, a slight rain starts, a soft spring feeling one, and not the heavy cold of winter. When I reach Chapters it has also just opened and Starbucks is nearly empty.  I order coffee – although I don’t need any – but think that if I am gong to use the establishment for my personal art studio I should buy something. So I count out change for a Pike blend coffee and put the fresh coffee carefully aside on the checkered booth table I sit at, the one where I can see the fireplace from one angle and outside the wall of windows from the other. I set up my art supplies, and begin to draw the one image that has haunted me since the previous evening. Soon I am lost into the world of creation, my gaze focused on the the shapes and colors and lines that come out of me. The art comes easily today, pouring out of my heart and hand, and I watch the creation just as much as I participate in it. I do not know which image will come next – which color I will use, but I create with no fear, just a calm confidence the image will work and it will be whole and complete. There are many times when I have had to chase after the butteflies, grab at them them with large nets,but there are also these, more rare times, when they come to me, landing softly on my hand until I am finished with them.

Starbucks begins to fill and the noise starts – a man constantly sniffing, coffee being ground, two students studying over one laptop. This morning the noise does not bother me or break into my artistic concentration. It settles into a background hum that I barely hear. Occasionally I take a sip of coffee, but it is mostly forgotten and soon grows cold. This too does not bother me. When I am in a state of real engagement with my work the only thing that bothers me is someone breaking into my concentration, and pulling my attention away to something else they want me to hear or to see. This morning though, the world leaves me alone, and it is not until two hours later that I look up and reengage with life. The blank white sheet of paper is no longer white, but covered in hearts in amongst hearts, and small circles with designs growing around them and through them. The drawing came so easily that I question whether it is any good, because isn’t an artist suppose to suffer for their art? I take a moment to look about the coffee shop before glancing back the work. It is good I think, it is the image that wanted to come out. I lean back now, contented, the creative storm quelled, the butterfly image caught.

I sit down with my coffee, just in time for a stretch of winter sunlight to fall across the false wooden top of the table. I notice the shadow play off of my coffee cup, and the crisscross designs they make on the gravely cement on the patio outside. Although the cafeteria is nearly empty I find it blaring loud today, each noise amplified ten times – the slap slap of a child’s runners on tile, the rurring of the cleaning carts wheels, the hum of conversation in a far corner. I feel tired this morning, exhausted, up all night creating. And yet, I still feel the burning in me to keep pushing myself, to draw, write, create something – anything! Behind me I hear the clinking of ice cubes being poured into a glass at the Chinese kiosk, and I am surprised my hearing is sensitive enough to hear such a small sound. Since following this artist journey, I have begun to notice little things now, like the chip in the wooden table top, and the way the steam from the take out cup curls upward, and the clinking of ice cubes. I sip my coffee, trying to ignore the heightened noise and images around me. Today I crave solitude and quiet, a walk along a winter deserted beach at Dallas road, with just the sounds of waves and seagulls. I have poured out steadily from my heart for the last three days, in writing, poetry, art, in a manic need to express myself, and now I feel empty, hollow, an intense need to bring something back into my heart to nourish it’s fragile growth so that it does not burn out, becoming ungrowable parched earth.

I rub my tired eyes and glance up at the scene around me, wondering how I ended up in the life I now live. How did I go from that punk, skull wearing smart alec kid from Matsqui writing poetry of anger and drawing images of broken and bruised hearts, to this, this argyle sweater wearing adult with a gallery showing at Serious coffee, and column that may be shown in a real newspaper. When did I step through the looking glass and meet the reflection that I never thought I’d be able to touch?

As I ponder this, I sip my coffee and watch the empty cafeteria. The recent memory of the day with the baby niece comes back to me, and how holding her small sleeping body taught me that each moment is precious, never to be repeated again, and you must embrace life in all it’s nuances, and see the specialness of each moment because it will never be repeated again. Suddenly the noise around me is no longer grating but comforting, for it is the sound of life, the sound of everyone’s collective hopes and dreaming clashing together, and I am one of them, walking a road that my foot now finally fits on. I listen to the sounds with interest now and look at the sights around me, extraordinary in the ordinariness; like the bright orange neon lights of the Orange Julius sign, the shadow thrown by my paper coffee cup, the smell of Chinese food wafting from behind me. And I stop thinking about the column that needs to be updated, or the half finished artwork at home. I stop, and I look and see only this one this one day, this one time, this one moment. I breathe in, I breathe out. I live. One special moment at a time.

By Sarah-Anne Playle

Sarah is a independent writer and artist who always “Tries to do something different”. To read or view her work visit: http://www.innerheartgallery.com

Flashback to earlier in the evening. The father person picks me and the artist friend up at my apartment. We are going to hang my first display, but first I need to print out a bio at the library. The library is crowded, and I am frustrated with the lack of computers. The father waits for me in a loading zone. I said I would be two minutes. I stand in line to reserve a computer…a man with greasy hair, and some mental problem speaks loudly and shoves in front of me in line. I say nothing, not wanting to start a fight with a crazy person that night. He comes again though when I am having trouble with the printer. The librarian tells him twice, “Go to the desk,” firmly. The man, crazy, or drugged, I’m not sure which, finally leaves. The librarian finally overrides the computer and manually prints my bio, and then I am back in the van heading to cook street. The father person drops us off, makes sure we’re in okay, and then leaves for home.

We come into the coffee shop with my artwork and bags of supplies, chain, hooks, holders, tape, Windex. We come over prepared, but this is my first display and I do not know what I need. We get the hooks and set up camp on a small table near the wall that my work will be hung on. It is evening and quiet. One girl sits on the far end of a sofa near us talking on a cell phone. A few other patrons read papers over hot coffee. I climb the shops small ladder so I can reach their picture railing and balance preciously to hang the chain we brought. Then the artist friend does the same thing to measure where to hang the drawings. As I work, I feel I should act professional, like I do this all the time, like this is no big deal at all, but when it is all done and I stand back and see my hard work displayed for the very first time ever I laugh out loud and all of my professionalism act drops. In that moment I do not feel like pretending to be anything I am not, I just want to be what I am, a young dreamer, enjoying her very first art display. I know that whether I become a great success or a great failure, only once will this moment ever happen, the moment when my art is, for the very first time, displayed to the world.

The artist friend takes out her camera, and I pose proudly by the display. The camera flashes, once…twice. The coffee manager smiles at me and I know how I must appear, like such a beginner, a dreamer, a hopeful, not even close to the professional artist I want to be. She says, “They’re very pretty,” and for a moment I am filled with self doubt, thinking, are they? Does she truly believe that or is she just staying it to make the dreamer happy? The Artist friend wants another shot. I push my doubts away and pose again, thinking, what does it matter if the compliment is real or fake? In this moment I choose not to worry about the critiques, the sales, the career, the future, or anything at all. Instead I choose to savor a beginning that, no matter where my career takes me, will never happen again. This one moment, standing proudly by my display is a first that will never be experienced again. When the artist friend is done with her photos, I take out my own camera and take shots of the display. And as I capture my first artist steps on film, I try to also capture them in my heart; the feeling of completion, of success, of pride, knowing how much work went into each simple drawing – the hunt for the right size frame, the battle with how to do the matting and not wreck the mixed media beads, the three failed attempts at my fourth drawing and finally pulling it out the night before my debute, where I sat by lamplight on my floor for an hour wrestling with the custom mat until it was just right. Others may come in and see a simple drawing with some nice matting, but I will always know the creative focus and energy it took to make each piece come just out right. And as stand back and look at the drawings, I know, that no matter what other people may end up thinking of the work, I have the right to feel proud.

As we leave the coffee shop, our supplies packed up and ready to go, the artist friend stops and takes two more pictures. I see a man frowning at having a camera focused on him. Normally I care about such things, but that night I do not. I want the photos taken. I want to remember this day, this moment, I want to remember it in case I ever do become known, so that I will always know where I came from and how humbly I started.

The artist friend and I walk home together, and say our goodbyes at Fort street. I head back towards my apartment, drinking cold Starbucks coffee bought hours ago, and as I do I feel a sense of completion and also a odd sense of emptiness. My first display is done, so where do I go from here? I think this as I admire the beautiful trees in bloom, the blossoms such a light pink they’re almost white. I cross the light and ride the elevator to my apartment, where I step into the creative mess. There is still so is so much more work ahead of me in my career, but at that moment I stand still and breathe and let myself settle in the the happiness of a beginning and a moment that will never be repeated again.

…Flash back a few days. The artist friend is over helping me frame one of my drawings for serious coffee. I knew when I had done that piece that is was simple, and not one of my best, but I feel a renewed disappointment in it when I view it framed. I feel as if I am using my mixed media to hide my real lack of talent – to make something that is otherwise mundane and childish stand out as interesting and sellable. The artist friend likes that piece, admires how I did the hearts and added the mixed media, so perhaps it is just my to personal eye that views my work in the light of imperfection.

…Flashfoward again to that evening. I sit at my studio, disheartened with my own lack of talent. I draw, layering color over color in boredom. I do not create this evening, what I do, is finish. The piece I work on does not excite me or really interest me at all. It feels simple, plain, and I feel it does not showcase my real ability to draw, it just showcases my ability to hide plainness with colorful beads. I still have in my portfolio the 8×10 pieces I did as a teenager and how intricate and detailed and unique each one was. The pieces I have done lately, to me, feel contrived and stale.

I finally take a break from my layering. I pull back the curtain covering my glass screen door and look out at the city lights shining in the night darkness. I stare out at the city and wonder, where did the joy of my art go? The fun and playfulness? Was it buried under incoming bills, or is there something more wrong? I glance down again at the large piece I have been working on, and feel an unnameable feeling of disappointment? Disheartening? Just a inner sense that something is wrong. The drawing does not speak to me, does not fill me with any emotion. It is a few interesting shapes that will be filled in with sand beads. This is not the type of art I want to do. I stand up to get some distance and go the short distance into the kitchen where I put on water for coffee.

As I let the water boil I glanced down at the round coffee stains on my counter. Dark and spreading out in different designs, like someone had placed them there on purpose. I can still see as an artist, I think, so why can I no longer create as one? And perhaps that is the problem, I realize, the fact that I have not actually created in over a month. All I have done is drawn shapes and filled in color. That type of art does not fill me with any sense of creative fulfillment, so I feel empty.

The water boils and I make instant Maxwell, stirring a heaping teaspoon into my cup. I think of what the best friend would say to me, “NO COFFEE FOR YOU!” and it makes me smile. He would also ask, “Have you arted today?” And that is the question I think, as I sit down back down at my studio, have I done art today? I have colored, filled in images, and been bored and distant. Setting my coffee carefully on the side of my studio, I reach down and pick up a small 11X14 sketch that I finished earlier. As I check to see if the mixed media is dry I am struck by the beauty in this drawing. I am not looking at a stale color-in-the-shapes-drawing, but a living art piece that is full of the interest and emotion I felt when I created it, one where the mixed media is so subtle it is almost unnoticeable, just enough to give it a slight sparkle when the light hits it. This Drawing is one I wold admit with pride that I drew. I switch my gaze to the unemotional larger piece, a pretty picture with no heart. I stare thoughtfully at it for a moment, slowly realizing that that is is not the type of art I want to build my career off of. So I move the large sketchbook the floor and find my smaller 11×14 one. I open it to a blank page and try to draw the way I used to, just sitting down and creating, going with whatever colors and images wanted to come out. I am slow at first, like the ability to actually create has become rusty with disuse. I start one sketch, lose interest, start another, and another….and when I am about to give up, finally make a pencil mark that captures my interest and then I am drawing, creating. I lean over my work, people passing outside talking, cars going by on Douglas, a homeless mans cart wheels squeaking, and I notice none of it as I lose myself in the drawing, the lines, the colors, the shapes, the minut details of the small petals circling the heart. This, I think, This is me, this is where my talent lies, in small sketches, where the intricate details are the focus and the mixed media adding to the drawing instead of being the drawing. As I draw, as I Create, I already know I won’t finish those last two large sketches. They will be put aside, probably to never be finished or even looked at again. I know how much more I can sell the large prints for, but I am still a naive enough artist to believe in artist integrity. I do not want to force myself to put out prints I do not believe in just to take people’s money. My heavy heart lightens as I sit in my lamp lite apartment and once again, Create.

The world is dancing with sun and the artist friend and I are making our way slowly to Cook street, stopping to admire colorful architecture or newly bursting buds. As we walk she mentions a potential job prospect she has – a simple cleaning job – and I am surprised to feel a twinge of envy. To work, to have a steady income, to not have to live off your hopes, dreams, and overdraft. But I hated cleaning I quickly remind myself….didn’t I? For some reason, a melancholy sadness settles in me for my old cleaning job and the easy simplicity of it. We reach Serious Coffee, order large dark roasts, and then are looking over at my display area talking about framing and matting. I flashback to many years ago, to a time long before I ever thought I would be who I am and where I am, and when art was simple; a sketchbook, Crayola pencils, and my bed. Some of my best pieces came from that realm of uncluttered simplicity.

Flash forward back to this morning. For some reason I feel tired inside today, more worn from my sudden success rather than happy. My journal is no longer kept for personal growth, but now each entry is scanned for a potential column entry. It is a fine line as an artist, learning how much to share, and how much to allow to just be yours. It’s a line that every artist must learn to draw in their careers, whether they be writers or visual artists, because all art is a process of showing emotion, expressing your inner being in words or pictures. When art is viewed and critiqued it is not just the creation that undergoes the scrutiny, but also you yourself as it’s creator.

So I sit there in the early morning gray, the pink blossoms of the trees on the boulevard muted against their dreary backdrop and think of how complicated things have become, and wonder, what happened to that girl who started all of this? The one sitting in Tim Horton’s, a regular working class girl in cleaning uniform. Now I may have a column published, and have an art display coming up. I listen to the seagulls scream to each other, continue to sip my instant coffee – made as strong as I can without making it bitter, and consider who I was and who I am. I realize that I am now on the threshold of potential success, and now suddenly my step has stopped and pulled back. Sometimes, I think, success might be worse than failure. At least failure leaves you in familiar charted territory, whereas success throws you into the deep end of the ocean with your creations shown to the world to be discussed, critiqued; strangers deciding if your work was worth the effort or not, and for some reason this morning, sitting in the stillness of an art studio that is looking more and more professional, this fact bothers me, and I want to pull back into my former life of simplicity when it was just me, a sketchbook, some pencils, and my bed. Me, a coffee, a diary. But I know I am so close to success, so I fight against my sudden desire to flee back into a creative cocoon, because I won’t know how I feel about success until I reach it, and won’t know if I can swim in the deep end if I don’t first jump in. And it’s like I heard about runners who run marathons, that they know when they are close to the finish line, because it is right then that they want to just stop and give up. So I realize, I am close to the finish line, except in a life of art there is no finish line…..

So I finish my coffee, glance at my latest drawing to see where to put the sand beads and reach towards success….