I was born with the eyes I was born with, and they’ve been sending signals to my brain every moment ever since, and I can’t take credit for that. My brain seems able to avoid adding much interpretive nonsense before sending the signals on to my hands for replication, and that in itself is Art, and so I can’t take much credit for that, either.

The real work of Art is Practice, and for that all credit goes to Story. You see, without a real heart-tugger, I can’t bear to tear my eyes from the signals, to nudge my brain into a commanding role, to pull my hands into submission to practise replicating the signals. Story tugs my heart: suddenly, all else steps into line and must, absolutely must, make Art; for Art has become the retelling of Story, the creating of Beauty.

So far, most of my own Story has been good; some of it has felt bad. A bit of an academic nerd and a lot of an artsy empath, I've trained reallyreally hard at not taking myself too seriously. Pretty much an expert by now.

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