Artistic Ambition

A black mug on the table, a sweet, blonde mixture of tea, milk, and sugar. Yellow pencil in hand, its tip rested on black lines. Rain fell lazily from a white sky, not a streak of blue in sight, yet the clouds were radiant, practically magnifying the light from the sun above them. It was morning; not early, but not close to noon. That most perfect of times for someone like myself, fully wound down from a grueling night’s labor stocking the shelves of a mediocre gray-blue-and-yellow superstore, and still a couple more hours to kill before I decidedly had to force myself into bed — an exceedingly modest twin bed.

I lived a humble life. Okay, humble might not be the word, more like dreary, but it was nothing I could complain about. I wasn’t starving, but I certainly didn’t glut myself. I had an ample collection of books, my pride and joy, where most of the funds I could spare went, and a number of sketchbooks filled daintily with colorless figures, caricatures, and studies alike — as if paint and marker would offend the pure white paper or to draw on the margins might be impolite.

I spent the majority of my time reading, writing, admiring art and attempting to create my own. Much like many of my stories, my visual pieces would never see another’s eyes. They were meant for myself, part of me tried to justify, though I had entertained that line of thought too often for it to settle the ache in my heart. It wasn’t just not true, that was a forgone conclusion. No, it was plainly offensive. A weak attempt to quell my ambition, a remnant of my younger self’s fear of rejection. I was older now, living a threadbare life, “just trying to get by,” as a result of their complacency. As the uncountable droplets continued their descent back to solid ground, I mused on our similarities. The water almost yearned for the firm earth, to get out of the clouds, even. I know I need a stable foundation for my works, stories and drawings put out there to establish my presence, just that if not a reputation. I know I need to get my head out of the clouds, quit daydreaming and losing myself in the pages, especially to abandon my lofty ideas of being a famous author or artist with no prior footprint in either world.

There was just an issue. I didn’t have any idea what to start with. Not just where do I start, where might I spread the prose and the lines I pour my heart into, what do I do to reach the biggest audience — just which one do I start with? Drawing? Writing? Maybe my entrance to the scene should just be a simple review, tell a fandom how much I enjoyed a book. No, that’s no way to start a potential career. Then it hit me: did I really want to try and make a career out of this? I had no passion for my job, the pay was meager and the work was boring at best and downright slavish at worst, not to mention the friends I’ve drifted apart from just due to the schedule; working the graveyard shift will do that.

There it was. Stress, anxiety, fear. I didn’t want to be stuck in a dead-end retail position, but I was stumped when it came to career artists and authors. They put their work out there for all to see, to judge, to debase, and even plagiarize, and yet there are more than I can count who have made livings that way. There’s even a place for creativity today, despite everything, I’m reassured, as I watch my favorite authors and artists pump out chapters and portraits day by day. Maybe, maybe, maybe, a whisper from the back of my mind, ceaseless.

Maybe I could… be like them? Be something similar? Maybe.

The rain poured harder as the overcast finally dimmed. Even the sky disagrees with you, a pessimistic voice tried to coo through my own throat, but I shoved the thought out. Just a second too late, however, as the thought lingers in my mind. I’ve never actually published any works or posted any art, who’s to say I’m good enough. I reminded myself that no one — almost no one, at least — starts out good, and most improve with genuine critique. That’s what I need, not that dying whimper of timidity echoing from my past. I need to put myself out there, take in all the criticism and advice I can, and blaze my way out of this stockboy pit as an up-and-coming artist of visual and written mediums!

I’m really feeling it this time, thinking to myself that I’ll have a dozen commissions lined up in a few months, a story worthy of a publisher by year’s end, and a legacy that my friends and family would be proud of in a few years! Just… which one do I start with?

On the one hand, I’d been writing since before high school. I never actually picked up reading as my favorite pastime until a year or two after graduation, but I always had a story to tell. And now, I had countless ideas for stories, short and long, horrifying and fantastical, and even some works ready to be shared immediately. All I need do is copy, draft a forum post, paste, post, and wait.

On the other, I was devoted to my drawings. Around the same time I took up reading, I figured that ink on paper was the best thing ever, and finally learned to enjoy drawing as an act of expression, rather than a means to an end — a finished drawing that I placed too many expectations on, resulting in consistent disappointment in my underdeveloped abilities. With the years of experience I had, though, it was only a matter of putting pencil to paper and translating ideas from my memory and my chosen references into a new image made in my distinguished style. I’ve spent countless hours depicting figures and environments, legendary creatures, and the carefully-crafted characters from my own tales. It was simply a matter of taking a picture and attaching it to a social media post.

The downpour outside relented as the sky once again glowed bright. The rain showed no sign of letting up besides that, but I took that to mean something profound. That’s what I wanted to do, I mean, I had just yet to decide what, exactly, was profound. Maybe that meant I should post my drawings?

I started on sitting up when I knocked over the mug on the table. I swore and hurriedly set the mug upright, pushed my sketchbook away from the sugary drink, gone lukewarm in my daydreaming, and broke into a dash for something to sop up the spill before the table — and the floor, as the drink dripped down the table’s edge onto it — had a chance to get sticky. A dish towel was the nearest thing I had, and I practically slammed it onto the table on my return. Maybe that’s a no on the drawings.

I crouched down and folded the towel, using what dry surface remained to clean the splatters on the floor. Maybe it was for the best I put out what I was better at. I had the most experience with writing and nothing gave me such cathartic joy as developing the worlds in my head through notes and prose.

Though I had just finished writing that outline yesterday. I was pretty beat on writing for the day, but a little more couldn’t hurt, right?

Maybe I just need to think about this. Over a new cup of tea, to be specific.

I rinsed the mug off at the sink and gave it a quick pat down with a fresh dish towel, filled the electric kettle with just enough for a cup, and gather the milk and sugar while it boiled. I took great care in tearing the top off of the foil the English breakfast tea bag was kept in, remembering a regretful accident that left my counter and floor littered with tea leaves, and let the bag dangle as the length of the string unraveled. I dropped it in the mug and waited patiently for the water to come to the exact temperature: 185 degrees Fahrenheit, “85 degrees Celsius,” I mumbled to myself. I poured what I estimated to be three-fifths up the mug, leaving room for no more than a couple spoonfuls of sugar and a scant splash of milk. I was patient in letting the tea steep, losing track of time for a minute or two in my enjoying the pitter-patter of the rain on the window. I looked down into the mug, the dark, reddish-brown of the tea made all the darker by its container; the mirror-like surface of a pond reflecting the night sky was all I could think of for a moment, and I wondered then whether it would be the perfect subject to illustrate, or the perfect setting to write in.

Maybe I’ll lay off the milk and sugar this time. I held the mug to my lips, imagining a black pond beneath a sky of starbursts and dusty nebulae, and savored the first sip of the black tea: rich yet crisp, dark yet fresh with a familiar grassy note that gave way to that subtle hint of citrus that always made me come back to black tea on occasion. I knew then exactly how I would introduce my works to the world: an illustration to accompany a short story. A little ambitious, that apprehensive voice whined. I’ll need ambition in spades.