The Artist-in-Waiting
There is a particular breed of person who haunts the peripheries of creativity. They buy notebooks, sketchpads, and imported Japanese pens that cost more than a decent lunch. They subscribe to newsletters, podcasts, and subreddits dedicated to the craft. They linger in the foyers of literary festivals, eyeing the guest speakers with a mingling of envy and reverence. They collect ideas like some people collect vintage crockery—admiring them, handling them with great care, but never entirely putting them to use.
And yet, when pressed, they say: "Oh, I'm not really an artist." Or worse: "I'd love to, but..."
The Endless Excuses
Ah, the but. There is always a but. But I don't have the time. But I don't have the training. But I wouldn't even know where to start. These are the mantras of the exquisitely self-defeating, the artist-in-denial, the devoted disciple of potential rather than practice.
The Truth About Permission
The truth? No one is going to sweep into your life with a velvet-gloved hand and an embossed certificate declaring you a fully-fledged artist. The universe, cruelly indifferent to your beautiful notebooks and wistful yearnings, is not in the business of issuing permission slips. If you are waiting for a sign, it is this: You simply decide.
You decide to sit down and do the work, even when it's inconvenient, you doubt yourself, or when your first efforts are flawed. You decide that art is not a side dish in the banquet of life but, rather, the main course. You endure the exquisite agony of making things instead of the slow, dull ache of not making things.
The Ache of Not Creating
And make no mistake: not making art when you long to is an ache. It festers. It calcifies into cynicism. It manifests in excessive scrolling, inexplicable irritability, and the quiet, creeping sensation that you somehow miss your life.
What an absurdly tragic fate to be the one standing in your own way.
A Personal Reckoning
I know because I have been there. I have waited—aching, frustrated—for external validation, for someone to tap me on the shoulder and say, "Yes, you are an artist. You may proceed." And in that waiting, I stagnated. The work I dreamed of making stayed locked in my head, an unfulfilled potential that weighed heavier with every passing day. It was only when I chose—when I consciously decided—that everything changed. The choice to create was the most powerful thing I ever did. No one gave me permission; I took it. And so must you.
The Final Truth
So let me say this once and say it plainly: I can't help you if you don't give yourself permission to be an artist.
I can offer advice. I can sing the praises of routine, discipline, and showing up every day whether you feel like it or not. I can suggest exquisite rituals—the perfect incense to burn, the most forgiving fountain pen, the Bach sonata that will unfailingly trick your mind into a state of deep focus. I can extol the joys of the commonplace book, the catharsis of a well-kept journal, the thrill of a freshly primed canvas.
But none of it matters if you do not fundamentally permit yourself to take up space as a creative being. No tricks, tools, or elite MFA program can do that for you.
The Invitation
So, do you? Do you permit yourself to be an artist?
Because if the answer is yes—really, truly, irrevocably yes—then there is nothing left to do but begin.
Go on, then. The world is waiting for what only you can create. I'm cheering for you.
Your Art Pal,
Pattie
These blog posts are free of charge. However, they do take time, energy, and a lifetime of artistic experience to put together. If you’d like to buy me a cup of tea as a bit of thanks, I’d appreciate your generosity. Buy Pattie a Cup of Tea.
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