I love to write and I’ve discovered I’m getting better as I write more and more. I’ve also discovered that sometimes it takes me 5 different manuscripts at the same time before I find the one with a skeleton the story can hang off of.

I’m putting in the work. Not knowing if I’ll get better or get published or anything. Just doing it for the joy. For the story I want to read.

My son is 18. No longer a princeling, or boy-child (even if he Always will be to me). Something he has always enjoyed is drawing. I encouraged it– it’s great for self expression and art is a form of therapy for me. And many others, I’m sure.

The problems come in with others. His dyspraxia makes holding pencils difficult. Mechanical pencils are the norm for him. The problem doesn’t come from his heart, from his enjoyment or even his dyspraxia. It came from others.

His fine motor skills made writing difficult in the education system. Teachers and peers can be cruel. They can take your love for your chosen art form and make you feel small. I hate that.

I hate that people who will never pick up a pencil and draw can make him feel less than confident. I hate that people who wouldn’t know how to write a thank you letter come after authors who have written a whole novel.

Just because you don’t appreciate it doesn’t mean it isn’t art.

Being an artist is about leaving a piece of yourself in the world. Regardless of the form, whether pencil or paint, music notes or words, art has soul to it.

And the thing about art? The more you do, the better you get. Talent is only maybe 10% of the equation. The rest is just doing it. Getting better. Finding your voice.

Finding you.

Know this, my Lovelies — if someone doesn’t appreciate your art, they aren’t the intended audience.  It will find a home.