An Artist Child's Manifesto
I wrote my first short story when I was six. It was about a bunch of Mexicans who ate too much, got drunk, and then had an orgy. Yes, I grew up fast. I had a difficult time mastering penmanship, probably something to do with not going to school. Nevertheless, I devoured pencils and paper at an incredible rate. I also loved to draw; many of my scribblings were women of exaggerated proportions who looked like Dolly Parton.
I hid my writing from my parents. The first person I showed it to was the facilitator of my gifted studies program. She told me it was great. I was 11. The story was about a little boy named Christopher who ran away, had a string of extraordinary adventures, and then returned home before his mother realized he was gone. It was published in an anthology that was distributed to every branch of the Hawaii State Library system, as well as many schools. Excited, I brought the story home. I tried to get my mother to read it. She threw it at me, yelling obscenities. Down the road when she heard me telling someone I'd published a story, she called me a liar. I was dissuaded from doing my art. I was criticized and vilified. I learned that what came naturally was bad, almost as bad as sucking cock.
I continued writing but only for friends. I'd compose dirty little short stories that would get passed all over school, through hundreds of hands. Some days they were the buzz of the lunch room. The other kids asked for more, I was as prolific as I could be. Yes, I loved the accolades. I poured my experiences into my writing. As fiction I could show it to the world. Nobody would have believed it anyway. People quoted my stories in the backs of yearbooks.
I got on drugs and dropped out of school. I took a writing class in college, wrote a few more short stories. Of course...I was a BUSINESS ADMINISTRATION major; the writing class was a guilty pleasure. My other love was music. I was told to also keep that as a hobby. I disciplined myself and at one point had a 5-octave tenor I could bounce off the back of many an auditorium. Practice, practice, practice. And I loved it.
Drugs and alcohol robbed my music and blocked the outlet of my creativity. I wrote three books and trashed them for fear of criticism. Yes, every trace. I wrote in secret, not telling a soul. Age 39 I had an incredible spiritual experience. I was driving. As I crossed Sunset Blvd, it was like a huge beam of warm light passed through me. Suddenly, every worry vanished. I drove straight home and started writing. I wrote the 120,000 manuscript in just a few days. It was liberating. Everything I'd bottled up all those years poured out of me...and I wrote a psycho thriller. And then I wrote another. And another. And a memoir. Heartbreak came and I turned it into an anthology of short stories. A year passed, all I did was write. Noir, mystery, erotica, romance, even a dab of supernatural...I let it all out. It was wonderful.
I posted sample chapters online and at one point several hundred people were reading my work on a regular basis. I was amazed by the overwhelming praise. A few said they didn't care for my genre and I respected that. Not a single person has ever said "I love reading thrillers and this is garbage," although I'm sure that I'll hear things like that after my current project is published. It comes with the territory and I don't expect everyone to think my writing is fantabulous. There's one form of criticism that's horrible..."I don't like it" with no explanation or just silence. That's called "toxic criticism." This area is where I sabotage myself. Strangers are one thing...but I have a stellar way to make myself feel really shitty. I find the most critical, narrow-minded person I know and hand them a rough draft I've worked on for about an hour rather than something I've poured over and polished.
A famous artist I drove for an hour once told me that when someone takes the time to dissect your art and form a negative criticism, that criticism becomes art. He also said that every person who has ever done that for him ended up liking a subsequent piece. I've bounced this off best-selling authors; it resonated with them.
In this whole process, I've been coming back from a complete and total nervous breakdown that happened in 2007. The crux of the breakdown was my going all-out, doing something that was contrary to my dreams. On paper, I was successful. I made what I considered a great deal of money and became well known in my field...but it came at a very high price. I think the way to avoid this happening again is to take good care of myself...and do what I want, not what I don't.
In this process, my husband and most of my friends have been supportive. I think normal people figure out what they "are" earlier in life. I was almost 40 before I said "you mean I can do this?" My generation of men works hard, fulfillment be damned. Make money, buy nice shit. That's it.
For those of you (pretty much everyone I know) who have been supportive of my process of creating art and enjoying it, thank you for helping nurture my artist child. Anyone who doesn't (like disapproving silence or changing the subject) is poisoning my artist child. I'll take appropriate measures to protect him. It's amazing to me that people who claim to love me would like me to stay a butler...a waiter...a servant, every year feeling less and less like a man, wanting to die. Stay small to keep them comfortable. My harshest critics have never read any of my finished work. Don't worry about me having an overblown sense of my own abilities, my parents convinced me I was a piece of shit and I've thought so ever since. I do believe I have ability and am growing exponentially thanks to input, teaching and friendship from those further down the path. I have 3 novels and 25 short stories I could publish right now, but I want to do it right.
Julia Cameron taught me what a Shadow Artist is: someone who wants to be "doing their art" but isn't. They are often in careers peripheral to the art they'd like to create. I'm a Shadow Artist, I drive artists around. The few who sabotage my art are also Shadow Artists. We're all members of a self-loathing club. I'm sure I've probably given the famed judgmental silence or harsh criticism over the years, it comes with the territory.
If you're not with me, you're against me. I'm grateful for those who support me. Anyone who doesn't can go fuck themselves. Amistad Maulpin's readers won't be fighting over my books. If I do a good job, James Ellroy and Christopher Rice fans might.
I hid my writing from my parents. The first person I showed it to was the facilitator of my gifted studies program. She told me it was great. I was 11. The story was about a little boy named Christopher who ran away, had a string of extraordinary adventures, and then returned home before his mother realized he was gone. It was published in an anthology that was distributed to every branch of the Hawaii State Library system, as well as many schools. Excited, I brought the story home. I tried to get my mother to read it. She threw it at me, yelling obscenities. Down the road when she heard me telling someone I'd published a story, she called me a liar. I was dissuaded from doing my art. I was criticized and vilified. I learned that what came naturally was bad, almost as bad as sucking cock.
I continued writing but only for friends. I'd compose dirty little short stories that would get passed all over school, through hundreds of hands. Some days they were the buzz of the lunch room. The other kids asked for more, I was as prolific as I could be. Yes, I loved the accolades. I poured my experiences into my writing. As fiction I could show it to the world. Nobody would have believed it anyway. People quoted my stories in the backs of yearbooks.
I got on drugs and dropped out of school. I took a writing class in college, wrote a few more short stories. Of course...I was a BUSINESS ADMINISTRATION major; the writing class was a guilty pleasure. My other love was music. I was told to also keep that as a hobby. I disciplined myself and at one point had a 5-octave tenor I could bounce off the back of many an auditorium. Practice, practice, practice. And I loved it.
Drugs and alcohol robbed my music and blocked the outlet of my creativity. I wrote three books and trashed them for fear of criticism. Yes, every trace. I wrote in secret, not telling a soul. Age 39 I had an incredible spiritual experience. I was driving. As I crossed Sunset Blvd, it was like a huge beam of warm light passed through me. Suddenly, every worry vanished. I drove straight home and started writing. I wrote the 120,000 manuscript in just a few days. It was liberating. Everything I'd bottled up all those years poured out of me...and I wrote a psycho thriller. And then I wrote another. And another. And a memoir. Heartbreak came and I turned it into an anthology of short stories. A year passed, all I did was write. Noir, mystery, erotica, romance, even a dab of supernatural...I let it all out. It was wonderful.
I posted sample chapters online and at one point several hundred people were reading my work on a regular basis. I was amazed by the overwhelming praise. A few said they didn't care for my genre and I respected that. Not a single person has ever said "I love reading thrillers and this is garbage," although I'm sure that I'll hear things like that after my current project is published. It comes with the territory and I don't expect everyone to think my writing is fantabulous. There's one form of criticism that's horrible..."I don't like it" with no explanation or just silence. That's called "toxic criticism." This area is where I sabotage myself. Strangers are one thing...but I have a stellar way to make myself feel really shitty. I find the most critical, narrow-minded person I know and hand them a rough draft I've worked on for about an hour rather than something I've poured over and polished.
A famous artist I drove for an hour once told me that when someone takes the time to dissect your art and form a negative criticism, that criticism becomes art. He also said that every person who has ever done that for him ended up liking a subsequent piece. I've bounced this off best-selling authors; it resonated with them.
For those of you (pretty much everyone I know) who have been supportive of my process of creating art and enjoying it, thank you for helping nurture my artist child. Anyone who doesn't (like disapproving silence or changing the subject) is poisoning my artist child. I'll take appropriate measures to protect him. It's amazing to me that people who claim to love me would like me to stay a butler...a waiter...a servant, every year feeling less and less like a man, wanting to die. Stay small to keep them comfortable. My harshest critics have never read any of my finished work. Don't worry about me having an overblown sense of my own abilities, my parents convinced me I was a piece of shit and I've thought so ever since. I do believe I have ability and am growing exponentially thanks to input, teaching and friendship from those further down the path. I have 3 novels and 25 short stories I could publish right now, but I want to do it right.
Julia Cameron taught me what a Shadow Artist is: someone who wants to be "doing their art" but isn't. They are often in careers peripheral to the art they'd like to create. I'm a Shadow Artist, I drive artists around. The few who sabotage my art are also Shadow Artists. We're all members of a self-loathing club. I'm sure I've probably given the famed judgmental silence or harsh criticism over the years, it comes with the territory.
If you're not with me, you're against me. I'm grateful for those who support me. Anyone who doesn't can go fuck themselves. Amistad Maulpin's readers won't be fighting over my books. If I do a good job, James Ellroy and Christopher Rice fans might.
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