I only recently started to think of myself as an artist. To me, I was just writing words on paper or pointing a camera and taking a picture; something just about anyone can do. But then it dawned on me that it wasn’t the action that was artistic, but the thought behind it. How I composed the words or the shot. Having a unique, creative eye and mind that sets me apart from the rest.
I’m still not completely comfortable using the word in most company. It’s a mere whisper to those who I know accept me as such. It’s difficult to throw the gears of thought into reverse after spending the vast majority of your life believing you don’t have a creative bone in your body, but like that which is now my Labor of Love, I am a work in progress.
I think we always possess some form of self-doubt. A gut-wrenching fear that we are nothing more than a talent-less hack. But when it is replaced with a new kind of fear, that of rejection, right before releasing your heart on a page or in a frame for the world to see, then you know. You know you are an artist. And I am.