Sanity is a luxury of the rested and content. The rest of us are content in our loss of sanity. It’s what gives us that je ne sais quoi that makes us, or our hatchlings, something to look at or ponder.
Conformity was target practice after I left home and began to build my voice, my look, my method, my scripts. The rejections came as thick as the ideas and the references at the end of the letters always pointed me to authors I should look at to refine myself.
I’d scoff. What does cummings know about me? What could Huxley understand about this brave new world I’ve thrown myself into. Why read someone else to see how to be myself?
Conformist, spat the angry youth.
I read; years after I’d left academia, tragically entering the world in the middle age of my twenties to resign to a cookie cutter job. I read the suggestions on the bottom of the rejection slips.
Orwell was a cop. Hemingway drove an ambulance. Artists live. Ideas are neat, art is experience and message and life. Ideas are a bubble. Live, read, learn, give it another go.
I was the same stupid kid. We all are and will be, but sanity has to be at the end. If we just try to do this same thing over and over and over again.