There’s a certain point in life, I believe, where you begin to reflect on the things that have happened to you (or the things that you’ve made happen, like your kids) and wonder – is this it? Is this what life is all about? Have I figured it all out? Not that having kids, being healthy, and successfully working in a career for a living is anything to shake a stick at, it’s just a really good point of reflection.
For the creative types, you might also ask yourself if anyone might be interested in hearing about what’s happened to you and how you might be able to express that. Some of us express these feelings and experiences through music. Some others like to paint or draw. Still others are able to write about it. In any case, you want to tell the world about what’s happened because there might just be one other single person on earth who can relate. That’s what art is supposed to be, if you ask me – relatable. That’s really all I ever look for, is someone or something to relate to. After all, that’s how we get along best with others is by relating to them.
In the tough times though, it’s sometimes enough consolation to know that someone else has, at the very least, shared your brand of pain. Maybe you’ve lost a loved one; or you’ve gotten a serious illness that turned your life upside down; or lived through a war to tell about it. As it turns out I have done all of those things. I have also asked myself whether others might be interested in hearing about my follies, tragedies, and successes. Were there others who would be willing or able to learn something from my experiences, both good and bad? I talked a lot about it over the years and, in fact, the answer turned out to be a resounding “yes.” Once I decided that there are things in my life I believe are worth telling the stories about, it wasn’t necessarily whether people want to hear about them anymore; it became more about how well I could tell the story to those willing to listen.