A Guest Post from Lynn Lilly, another Liggett-Stashower refugee, freelance writer, and believer in the unimaginable power of words.
You can't escape The Artists Way. Just knowing that it's out there in the Universe asking questions I ought to be answering is something (not everything, not nearly enough, but something).
I'm living my life trying not to look over at you guys who have made the commitment. It's like walking by Pottery Barn and willing yourself not to look at the beautiful things in the window because you're not quite ready to clean the crap off your dining room table so you'll have a place to put beautiful things. Too busy, too tired, too something. Don't look. Maybe later. Don't look.
But you do look. I DID look. I read the blog posts -- intimidating in their own right in their beauty. ( I still "channel" Viv and Ann when I'm writing sometimes…do you feel power leaving the hems of your robes?). And there it was…Artist's Dates.
I live in a farm town now…except that it's a university town, too. 7000 residents, 19,000 students. Think Bowling Green, think OU Athens. If you're not on campus, you're in nowhere. And even with a husband on the faculty, you're perceived as pretty much a townie, need a passport to be on campus…and they never look at you, just your faculty spouse. Plus, you're living in a town painted bloody Republican red…this is tea party central, Fox News-watching country. They still have "safe haven" faculty offices for GLBT students on campus (though, in fairness, I don't think anyone has ever needed one).
I rant. (Now and frequently).
That's why the Universe (in the guise of all of you) sent The Artist's Way to sneak up behind me…and sucker-punch me with Artist's Dates. My first thought was…"it's a good thing I didn't sign up for THIS…where the hell would you go for an Artist's Date in Statesboro, GA? Wal-mart? The pawn shop?
You already see where this is going, don't you? Inner voice -- shit, you're worse than the people you rant about. Tom Case (former boss, mentor and touchstone) -- maybe it WON'T rain. My mom's voice from The Other Side -- Scratch your butt and get glad.
So thanks. Really thanks. Keep posting for those of us still hiding in the shadows at the edge of your campfire. And if you're ever 53.7 miles due west of Savannah, Georgia, I'll take you on an Artist's Date with me. How do you feel about the tattoo parlor?