Many years ago I had a British/Polish painter lover in New York. We didn't like each other much but we had sex like crazed weasels on irregular intervals for a few months. He told me that I couldn't be a writer and a painter; I had to choose one or the other or be doomed to suck at both. "Who do you think you are?" he said, in that goddamn knee melting accent, "William fucking Blake?"
And, not really due to that, but more to kids and jobs and life and shit, I slowly stopped making art and just wrote press releases and drank a lot. But now maybe I can add my own bad freaky art back into my repertoire - and it will be okay. That would be good. I lost 4 hours this afternoon just working on prints. Well, that and yelling at Jackson every 7 minutes or so. That dog will kill me yet.