Nobody Told You: If You Want to Be an Artist, You're the Suspect!

If you want to be an artist or author, prepare for interrogation. Ten seconds of silence, and you’ll spill every story you’ve been hiding. Well, everybody can tell you that being an artist or author isn’t about waiting for inspiration to strike. It isn’t about having talent, ideas, or a “creative vibe.” Nope. I am sure that you are being told that what you need is surprisingly mundane: a pen and a piece of paper. But here is the interesting part: you also need to have enough guts to face a very silent, very intelligent interrogator. Or even maybe more than one, but we will get to it in another post.

For now, who is this interrogator that we are talking about? I will tell you.

First, here is my boring experience, and not a secret to anyone, I’m never ready to start. The mood is rarely “Yes! Time to create!” They say the day will come to you, but newsflash: the day won’t stroll in on its own. It is always playing around. You have to grab it, tie it with a rope, and drag it into your present. Only then does it show up.

I never know what I’m going to write or draw until I sit down in front of it. And then we stare. Me. The paper. Deadly silent, unblinking. The kind of silence CIA agents use when they want a suspect to crack, the ten-second pause that makes someone spill everything they’ve been hiding. That’s me, sweating bullets under interrogation.

My mind screams: “Just start! Anything! Even a stick figure!” But I can’t. Not yet. The paper is patient, ruthless. It doesn’t care. It won’t let me off the hook.

Then, slowly, I start confessing. Awkwardly. Terrified. Scribbles turn into shapes, shapes turn into characters, characters turn into stories. Colors bleed, words tumble, ideas erupt from me like a shaken soda can I didn’t even know I’d shaken. And suddenly, I realize: I’m the one spilling secrets I didn’t even know I had. I’m the one doing the hard, beautiful, terrifying work.

Here’s the kicker: The day comes when you sit down, face the interrogator, and start confessing anyway. When you finally speak to the silence, when you finally start writing or drawing, the day arrives, screaming, kicking, but fully your own and tamed.