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5c5b60bc6f5ef0e7bb618323775e09ecDear Saul Timothy.

Thank you for submitting images of your artwork entitled “THE GREENMAN”.

The Members of the Selection Committee have given careful consideration to the images and regret that they will not be able to include your work on this occasion. They therefore request that you do not deliver it to the Academy.

We very much hope that you will submit work in future years.

With best wishes,

The Summer Exhibition Team

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Recently, as I’m in full swing of a painting at the moment, with one completed and framed, another a good quarter of the way through, I’ve been listening to some audio books, letting my Led Zep and Beck discography’s slip to the wayside for a while.

I got hold of IT, by Stephen King, as I enjoyed the film, with its tour de force performance by Tim Curry as the stories truly disturbing protagonist. I got to the second from last chapter and thought I’d save the climatic ending and listen to Stephen Kings audio version of On Writing, as to be honest, despite liking some of the adaptations of his books, Salem’s Lot, (both the Rob Lowe and David Soul versions) being one of my favourites, I haven’t ever actually read any of his books. But I was interested to see what such a successful author thought about writing itself. I have self published two novels, 145,000 words on average each, and while not considering myself a prodigy at the art of writing, I do consider myself to have an exceptional imagination. That may seem like a boast, or just out and out ego, but it’s true. However, I am not so in awe of myself to think that simply having ideas automatically makes you a good writer.

It does not.

If you cannot communicate those ideas to another, they are simply self indulgence, personal wank fantasies that relieve only yourself. But the books I have produced, though ultimately flawed, were good attempts, and have received nothing but good responses or supportive and helpful criticism from those who have read them. In a couple of cases, they even appealed to people who both didn’t know me personally and people who had never read fantasy before in their lives, which I took as a compliment.

However, listening to Stephen Kings On Writing (I prefer audio books simply because I can paint at the same time) has been a bit of a roller-coaster for me. Emotionally I have been drawn along, from the screaming heights inspiration, to the twists and turns of interest, all the way down to stomach churning gulfs of frustration and uncontrollable rebuttal.   

Pretty good for such a modest sized book, and probably more emotive than one of his novels might be to me. You see, I like to write. The stuff I’ve done has been fairly effective in terms of narrative and character development, not to mention creatively and descriptively interesting.

But listening to On Writing at points made me very aware of my blood pressure increasing to a point that I could feel wisps of steam escaping from my ears at some of Mr Kings opinions on the writing process. Oh, don’t get me wrong, there’s lots I agree with, more than most of the points he raises in fact. But some seem to come from such a privileged position, that they seem to be coming from someone else, someone other than King himself.

The section on grammar I found uncomfortable. I personally, couldn’t tell you what most of the terms used in formal grammar are. I wouldn’t know what a adverbial clause, or a bare infinitive, or even the genitive case were if they ran me over on a well lit street. Hell, I had to type into Google ‘terms used in grammar’, just to include them in this blog entry! So does that make me unable to write?

Personally I didn’t do much schooling back in the day. I left school, in body at least, around the third year of high school, preferring to spend my time talking on the CB radio, smoking dope and listening to heavy metal. My vocab was ultimately a result of spending a record amount of time in school detentions where the teacher would randomly pick a page of the English dictionary and tell us to copy out everything from there on until we were allowed to leave an hour or two later. I also played a lot of RPG’s back then and so learnt to write stories and narrate them to the other players. I turned up to school for one exam, English. I wrote three essays, each six to seven pages long, in the hour and a half we were given, and then noticed that the object of the exam was to choose one of three topics. I had written one for each. I never got a grade at the end. Well, I might have, but I never went back again to find out so who knows.

I can’t recall writing lots as a child, though I must have, tending to spend long periods in my bedroom. It couldn’t have all been checking my balls for traces of hair and listening to The Wombles!

I must have certainly drawn a lot because art has always been with me ever since, but at the age of 11 or 12, my step mother decided that I spent way too much time in the house, where she didn’t want me to be, so gave all my toys away and any writing or artwork had ended up in the trash. So unlike so many writers of note, I don’t still have those early signs of creativity, no indications of childhood artistic promise.

My life has remained that way, with a tendency to give my work away, rather than keep it for posterity. Somewhere out there I know there are hundreds of pictures and paintings of mine, in cupboards and attics, gathering dust. I have a handful from around my mid twenties that I can put my hands on personally, but otherwise that period in my creative life is an undiscovered country. Keeping things has never been important to me. Creating things is.

So Mr Kings musings on grammar just…well…infuriated me. I got my A levels at age 26, with grades of B, which I considered, after over a decade of total absence from any form of academic practice, was pretty good. The sad thing was at such an advanced age, I was too old to get onto any of the courses I wanted, film making and animation.

My career as a psychiatric nurse is predominantly word and language based. I have helped many people by listening and supporting them with words, while in written form, I have contributed to the swaying of professional tribunals to allow patients who had been restrained and restricted by the British Mental Health Act for literally decades, to be free of it and have a chance at some element of freedom and autonomy. Fair enough it was frowned upon, but the outcome was good for the patient, if not for my reputation as a nurse.

All this without any basic understanding of formal grammar. If I have it, it is something I have learned in the process of living.stephen_king_web

Another gripe regarding On Writing is issues relating to where to write, of having your own space. If you have read the book, you will remember the section. This I see as the attitude of a privileged few, and in Kings case, something containing a notable lack of personal recall. As the story goes, when he got his break with Carrie, he was living in a shit hole of an apartment, with a wife, kids and struggling to get by as a teacher. But he managed to write something that ended up getting him $200.000 when the paperback rights were sold. A massive sum for the time, and for a first successful novel. You cannot tell me he had a nice setup somewhere with a cozy chair, a good desk and the time to read and write to his heart’s content, so telling others this is a necessity is simply not fair. Who the hell has that luxury except a successful author who is worth a million and can afford such things?

People seeking this book out for inspiration at the beginning of a hopeful career in writing will simply think they don’t stand a chance. I feel that if an individual really has talent, and really wants to write, they will, because that is their gift, and they will get it done, even if they are living in a cardboard box and writing on the back of torn down advertising posters with a stolen pencil. The words are out there and you don’t have to be secure and privileged to let them use you to come out.

It’s the same with art.

I did some of my best drawings in recent years, backpacking around India, moving from hostel to hostel, restaurant to restaurant, with no real security. I have never, ever had an environment that was permanent. By nature I’m a bit of a nomad and have always lived in one rented place or another, with few possessions and a willingness to embrace the temporary. Don’t get me wrong, I would love such a thing, a perfect studio environment with good light, and the few things about me that I need to engage in the act of creating things. It would be bliss.

But its absence has never stopped me and this demonstrates how truly unnecessary such things really are in the act of creating something. The process goes on regardless.

His section on reading also caused me some discomfort.

I don’t read…much. Like I mentioned, I listen to audio books simply because I then have my hands free. My preferred method of falling asleep, when I’m alone, is to listen to HP Lovecraft stories on my MP3 player.

I read on the bog, because, well, there’s not much else to do there really and of all the places I have drawn, the toilet isn’t one I feel comfortable with, but reading is fine. The last book I absorbed in such an environment was Heart of Darkness, but I tend to leave the book there once the toilet paper ritual is over, so my reading is episodic at best. If I am in the process of serious writing, I never read, because as King points out, some people have a tendency to write like what they read. This I don’t want. I feel that reading a book while writing pollutes what I’m writing. My first book was exactly that. I had been reading Mervyn Peake’s beautiful Gormenghast trilogy, plus a favorite of the time, a book called Phantasia by the artist Alan Aldridge, and so A Hero Called Tim, came out in a combination of those two influences. Baroque might be a good description. A charming story too heavy with long words and use of a thesaurus. Something that King would read a couple of pages of before throwing across the room and then heading off in search of something suitably heavy to finish it off with.

I can understand the idea of reading as important, I just think there’s a time and a place, and don’t want it to influence the way I write, because it does, for good or ill. Yes, you can only understand writing by reading the writing of others, but Kings idea seems to be a mixture of both a love of reading and a lack of having something else to do. I doubt he reads to learn how to write, because, from listening to On Writing, he already has an established canon of what he feels is important in the art. Shit, its worked for him for decades, so what’s left to learn right?

At this point however, I’d just like to sing his praises though for the Dark Tower books. I haven’t listened to them yet, I’ve got Robert Jordan lined up, but I have nothing but admiration for a successful author, known for a certain type of book, who says fuck it all, and heads off in a different direction. Screw the critics!

As I say, theres lots I don’t like about Kings opinion of the writing process, and lots that I do.

Obviously On Writing is one mans opinion of course. But this is a man who has sold possibly billions of books, to billions of people. He is successful and has been so for decades. So, purely on those grounds his opinion on the process of writing is valid.

The one question I would like to ask other successful authors, Kings peer group so to speak is this…

‘Do you feel that you conform to the outlines that King lays out in On writing. Or is it just him, his idea of how it should be done and given that you (the other successful authors) are also popular, does this mean that there isnt just Kings way of doing things?

Stephen King

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I’ve been painting and drawing since I was about five, initially rather badly!

I recall actually buying pictures of dinosaurs off my friend Derek for two pence or so each, because he had advanced dimensionally, let us say and had learn’t a trick to draw dinosaurs mouths that had three dimensions, something that at the time I couldn’t do.

My first exhibition was in Thorpe-le-Soken, Essex, thanks to the teacher of my O level night classes in art at the age of about 18, whose name escapes me, while the recollection of her encouragement remains. My only issue with that experience was that I had done a picture of a hot air balloon, its crew a motley collection of animals, like something out of Wind in the Willows. She displayed it on the stairs, something that caused problems because the detail of the painting caused people to stop and examine it closely, thus blocking the stairs for other viewers.

My first encounter with the conservative, so called ‘community’ exhibitions was when I lived in Folkestone some three years later. A hotel on the seafront proposed an exhibition of art by local artists, which I obviously saw myself as at the time. Back then, I was painting in oils and acrylics, and profoundly inspired by the writing of Mervyn Peake. My paintings were dark and had a brooding quality, four of which I delivered to the gallery, naively optimistic that they would see them as worthy of viewing. I collected the four, which I found hidden behind a pile of chairs a week later, finding that none had been accepted. I received a letter a week after that asking for £10 for viewing the pictures. I ignored it!

I encountered a similar issue with my artwork in A level art at Colchester Institute in my late twenties. My art teacher there was of the stoic traditional type and looked upon my fondness for fantasy art as something akin to childish scribbling and not ‘proper’ art in any shape or form. Her opinion of me and my art was further tainted when I declared my opinion that Jackson Pollock’s artwork would make good wrapping paper. She loathed me from then on. I got an F in A Level art. As a postscript on this experience, years later I purchased several poster sized Pollock prints and preceded to wrap a number of boxes with them. I was right, they looked wonderful, and to this day, wonder why no one has come up with this idea, wrapping paper in general being so terribly dull.

Recently, some twenty eight years after my first exhibition, I applied to a local gallery in Colchester to have an exhibition. I had visited the place beforehand and wasn’t encouraged, but went for it anyway. My response was that my proposal was a little ‘out of the ordinary’. I submitted some of my black and white pencil drawings, which remained so out of the ordinary that like back in Folkestone, they had to be put before the galleries committee, which decided that they didn’t have space for the exhibition but I could send one or two pictures to a shared exhibition and dependent on the curators decision, they might show one. I was half tempted to send in some pictures just to see if a week later I would find them behind a stack of chairs.

I remain of the opinion that provincial galleries and exhibition spaces are so eager to retain their conservatism, and not actually offend anyone, that they continue to only display art that looks like the wall of an art block at any college in the country, or the type of art you might find on the walls of residential homes. Oh, of course there are exceptions and thank goodness for that, but generally, as I tend to think, having followed a professional career as a psychiatric nurse, art in the provinces is depressed, when it should be bipolar!

Art in any form that promotes an ‘ahh that’s nice.’ from its viewers sullies the very reason for art in the first place, as a legitimate form of creation and expression, and is about as far from what art should be as chalk is from the cheese of your choice. Art should promote something emotive, a gasp, disgust, awe, inspiration, a profound feeling that someone somewhere has created something that they invested a piece of their soul in. Not a photograph on canvas, there are companies that can do that for you, they can even put it on a mug if you would prefer. But it should still retain the essence of the creators skill in his chosen medium. Half a sheep suspended in a tank of formaldehyde is not art, its gaudy commercialism. There is no art in it, unless the artist was directly responsible for the sheep, which obviously he is not unless he is also responsible for evolution. True art takes nothing and creates something through inspiration and the utilization of a given medium. Before the artist can create, there was be nothing, a void, a vacuum, which they populate from their imagination. This is the reason for the steady decline of art over the centuries to the position of hobby. We live in a world where the default cultural state is that of the consumer. People only value something if you’re making money from it and its purpose is to sell, the art itself or another product. I don’t want to sell my art, it is part of me. If I’m going to sell the artistic equivalent of a kidney, I’m going to make it worth my while and so I put a ridiculous price on it, daring someone to be stupid enough to pay that much for it.

Once art held a different position, something worthy of appreciation and above all, love.

This is why I don’t really value digital or computer generated art. Because it is primarily used in commercialism and so as an artist lubricant for selling something else, as the advertising industry has demonstrated. I discovered this piece of enlightenment while in Madrid looking at an exhibition of Raphael’s work. Even after almost five hundred years, with obvious care shown to it, I had never seen such colours, such textures, such sheer glory in a painting, and often a very, very big painting at that! Because they are cherished as pieces of art, they will no doubt continue to be so for maybe another five hundred years, while all it takes is a power cut and your computer art is lost. It is as temporary as the commercial reasons for making it. Without electricity, there would be no computer art. Without the need to sell and consume, there would be no need for commercial art. It is distinctly discardable despite the ingenuity that can go into it, while a well prepared and cared for canvas can last for centuries. It is created in the purist sense and so deserves to remain so. It’s a physical reality, not something reliant on something else to exist. True art is creation, as shown by the definition of the word itself, ‘The action or process of bringing something into existence.’ But I will add to that. ‘The action or process of bringing something into physical and emotional existence.’

The aim behind the exhibition of any of my artwork is to hit people in the face, metaphorically of course, but to let them react, and above all, think. My art is obvious, lacking subtly in many respects, the messages likewise can also be obvious, though I aim to ask the question, are things as obvious as they seem? Is there more going on, that by looking, coupled with thinking, the viewer might realize?

My next step is simply to paint. Get a few good paintings done and then approach a local pub in Colchester, where during my college days I spent most of my time, and have them exhibit them, advertising the showing as ‘Art that no one else will display!’

Even if they cause abject consternation in the viewing public, the pub will sell a few pints so I will feel alright about the venture.

Recently I started painting again, the first major effort in this medium for a decade. Up until now I’ve concentrated on my pencil work, which given my nomadic nature has proved appropriate, purely because traveling with paints and sheets of prepared hardboard is not conjunctive  to traveling about India etc. And I have to say over the last decade or so, on and off from nursing, my style and ability to leap into creative areas I hadn’t attempted before, has come on more than I could have ever imagined.

But paint!?

(pause while I roll a cigarette)

You know fuck it!

I was going to go into tedious waffle about my aims and urges, but you know, all I want to do it paint.

I used to construct things, and refine and define, as I used to say, not photo realistically cos I don’t stray in the oft pompous realm of simply showing off my technical ability like Dali, but there was always a plan, something to focus on. But of late, since once more dipping my toe in the turbulence ocean of colour again, I have found that all I want to do it the act of painting. Sod the detail at first, that can come later once the primal stuff is there in front of me. I just want to be doing it. Its a heady feeling of just letting the brush and its resulting shapes and hues lead me on. I get an idea and just want to spread it all over the board, whether there’s detail or not. As I say,  the detail can come if I call for it, but for now, its the idea and the action.

It also supports my essential core belief about art.

We do not create art.

We are the medium, not the message.

Back in my youth, on my first trip out of the country, in the hills of Eastern Zimbabwe I had got into rock carving, which in Zimbabwe is still a thing of rare beauty. I was traveling and wanted to buy some stone, and stopped at a roadside carving site. Off the the side, there was a group of about three or four locals, squatting in the dirt around a lump of half carved rock. I joined them and watched for a moment as they turned it, hitting it occasionally with a chisel, the act seeming to be almost a joint effort and appearing chaotic in a calm type of way. I eventually asked how they decided what the carving was going to be. They simply told me that they didn’t decide anything. The image or shape was in the stone, all they did was let it out. It was there, hidden, waiting to be freed by the blows of the chisel, the rub of sand paper and the polish of cheap floor wax.

That hit me profoundly. Art is out there, it exists everywhere and within everything and as an artist, as a human being, we are the way it is revealed. It has life already, but needs us to be seen and revealed. We are the way it can become.

And to be honest, since that revelation, the art that I have forced into life, has always left me with a spiritually bitter taste in my heart. Its as if I created things that shouldn’t be, or weren’t ready to be created. But the things that I have just let shaped themselves, starting with my moment of inspiration, have always been my favourites. Its as if that moment of inspiration is a call from somewhere in the aether from something ready to be born, with me as its creative midwife. And through me, they come. Screaming or happily gurgling into life. I stand by the statement that I don’t create things. They already exist. I just let them out, for good or ill, such is the nature of art and creativity. If you force something into being, you are delivering an abortion. If you surrender to that little voice saying, ‘hi, can you hear me. I’m ready…’ then you’re ready to play your part in bringing something into reality that never existed before, something unique and precious. Something maybe that only you could bring out. They are out there waiting for you to hear them.

It feels pure.

I watched a Cranberries video tonight, that had a cross in it, a Crucifixion cross I mean, and I recall thinking, ‘that’s a bloody nice cross!’ I have been recently painting a crucifixion scene with a nurse instead of Christ, with two plague doctors at the base, dismissing the figures suffering. But this simple image made me think of something else, the creative standing on the shoulders of giants, so to speak. I visualized a cross, its ropes recently untied and hanging, in almost the foreground, a fiery almost magma like sky beyond spitefully jagged mountains in the background, and the figure of Christ standing at its base, his back to the viewer, tossing aside the crown of thorns. And the title of the piece was simply…’Fuck em!’

I started at about 9pm, and Im off to sleep now at 1am. But I feel an almost palpable sense of excitement about throwing more paint onto the board tomorrow. I have felt this before, but not in such a vivid way. It was all so clinical in the past. Ok, I produced some nice stuff, but there was nothing visceral about it. Now I feel it.

It feels good.

I will use this post to update its progress. Its delivery you might say.

Enjoy.

The other night, after some soul searching I realised that the above picture was…well….crap!   So it was thrown to the corner of the room and I started from stratch, resulting in this after 2 days work, which I will now focus with cos it has infinately more promise that the previous one.

utuitir

16th March…..ever onward….Ive been playing with skin tones and the visible signs of injury and abuse. The photo above is a poor one for which I apologise but it gives the idea of where I am at present. I’ve been paintings and repainting, mixed with a little sanding for over a week, and the figure I think is about half done. It could change, but who knows. I have an idea of something akin to the classical art of the old masters, something lacking too much detail but that leaves the mind to fill in the image, but something poignant, thoughtful in earthy tones. If it works, a classical almost gothic frame will surround it.

The final framed pics are as follows

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I am an artist and at what I do, I’m very good.

I am a writer and after self-publishing two books and doing all the leg work associated with such a task, and getting positive feedback from those I am fortunate enough to have got copies of my books to, I feel, that for now,  I’m OK as an author.

Alan Moore and Neil Gaiman have over recent years, become a major inspiration in my slog towards carving out my place in an industry that seems unwilling to take chances on new artists or authors. Oh, theyre very honest about it, but as noted elsewhere in this blog, being financially viable is where its at right now, which seems to leave very little room for us ‘small fry’.  But Alan and Neil remain my inspiration.

However, oddly enough,  I have made a point of never reading anything Neil has written, because I never want to feel that soul crushing feeling when reading an established author, of thinking ‘You bastard! That was my idea!!’

It happens believe me. The Gods of creativity nudging each other smugly as you realize that that idea you invested so much time and effort in nurturing, something that your whole story may hinge on, was given to an established author with all the muscle and contacts to do what you could never do…..get it published.

I never want to feel that way about Neil, because I enjoy listening to him, because when I do, everything I hope or dream of, seem possible. In that little moment from when he opens his mouth, to when he smiles and takes the applause, I feel that everything is possible and I have a chance….I really, really, have a chance!

I have listened to him over and over again and even for someone of my age, I find him a joy AND an inspiration because….well, he is the way I should, no…..I wish I had worked out, if I hadn’t forsaken my true artistic self and chosen a career that crushed my creative spirit, despite the good it has done others. He IS inspiration, dressed in black, with messy hair and an almost hypnotic voice. This vid sums him up and also sums up the inspiration he possesses for others, willing to listen.

Of all the vids available out there, this is the one that holds the most promise.

It holds promise for anyone, anywhere who is creative and/or artistic and hopes to release their creation on the world. Everyone stuck in a mundane and ultimately unsatisfying role in the world and dreams of doing something amazing, and touching the lives of others with their dreams, their ideas and their creative soul. But who for whatever reason feel they don’t have a snowballs chance in hell. Watch this and feel as I have felt. That everything is possible.

Why?

Cos Neil bloody well says it is numb-nuts!!!!

Enjoy

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ikAb-NYkseI

Just a minor point that I noticed. In mental health nursing you tend to become very good at watching non-verbal signals, body language, things that have been turned into a science by people like professor Paul Ekman with his development of micro gestures/expression detection techniques. However many people unfamiliar with the details of his work, will be aware of the unconscious single finger gesture common in Western society. In this video, at the mention and resulting applause to Neils Sandman series, he displays such a gesture to the audience. I love Neil and find him utterly inspiration, but he’s only human.

As a result of revisiting my HST issue, I got from Amazon a copy of Ralph Steadmans book The Jokes Over – Memories of Hunter S Thompson.

And despite only reading 43 pages at the time of this blog post, I am glad I got it.

I discovered Ralph Steadmans work long before I found the connection with Hunter, or Hunter for that matter! I found a copy of I Leonardo in a second hand shop for a fiver. His work is just so wonderfully alive and chaotic, his characters grotesque (much like my own) and his style hard to beat, and so utterly heretical compared to my own illustration style, which leaned towards obsessive Durer engravings in biro.

It was about 1990, the second hand shop was in Canterbury where I was homeless at the time, and I got a copy of Animals by Pink Floyd at the same time. (As you might note, being homeless didn’t stop me shopping)

Steadman joined my list of favourite artists, along with Patrick Woodroffe and Alan Aldridge.

I was overjoyed when I finally made the connection between the good Doctor and one of my favourite artists. It seemed almost instantly a match made, if not in heaven, them some liberal part of hell, where naughty rock stars and people of bugger sheep go after death.

But, at the point of starting to read The Jokes Over, I was engaged in a personal struggle with a portrait of a friend and enjoying the struggle as I always do. Its a weird thing for an artist. You want to create something and its like trying to hold an eel with your bare hands. It wiggles this way and that, especially if you are desperate to achieve a recognisable likeness and avoid insulting the subject. Its a battle between you and your medium, your skill or talent and the physical reality you  are trying to create. Personally I feel that artists are the actual medium and a truly inspired idea is something living, alive and waiting to be created.

It already exists, it the artists job to facilitate this birth.

Years ago when I was in my twenties, I was travelling in Zimbabwe and growing more and more fascinated by the type of rock sculpting they do there. I was up towards the mountians in the East and pulled up at a shack where they were selling carvings. I said I wanted to buy some stone and one of the group of carvers there squated down in the dirt and showed by a big lump of Veridian, a beautiful green stone that he had just started working on. It didnt look like much to me. In the end there was me and about a dozen locals all squating in the dirt and the first guy turned it this way and that, chipping little pieces off what was actually a carving of a bird. They all in part explained to me that the bird was in the rock, it was already there, waiting. Its the carvers job to release it.

Thats why I always feel kind of a fraud when doing pictures on demand so to speak, for other people. Its forced, a caesarian rather than a natural birth. Its not inpiration, your making it up. I hate doing stuff like that.

It always feels better when you feel its something that has just come to you, gifting you with the opportunity to let it be born.

But it can still be a struggle and I am grateful to mr Steadman for expressing that within the brief part of the book I’ve read so far. Glad that I’m not just a daubing, stratching, scribbling freak you enjoys metaphorically wrestling with a notion manifest in art, hoping to cross the finish line with something that does the inspiration justice. If I dont some other bugger will I’m sure of it.

Thats the thing you see.

If you are inspired and fuck it up, that idea will move on to the next nerd with a scrap of artistic talent and give them a shot. Same with writing. Thats why you come across people who have ideas or write stuff or draw things that you just  thought of or are in the process of doing, or more annoyingly have just finished.

You fucked up.

You werent quick enough, you sniveling wannabe artist. You’re just dross, thick phlegm clinging to the back of inspirations throat. Can’t swallow it, can’t cough it up and purge it!

Inspiration pondered your inadequate efforts and thought “sod this, I’m off”, leaving you to continue pathetically while its finds someone who can get the job done.

Inspiration is a cruel thing.