On twitter yesterday (?) M. C. A. Hogarth said something profound: If you read history, you’ll know that all artists are crazy. But they either break to light or shatter into darkness. There’s no middle ground.

It probably wouldn’t have impressed me as much — maybe — except that recently I was converting the manuscripts of collections I have published on Amazon (I can’t find the converted files anymore. Perhaps 15 years and several computers dying are the problem) and therefore coming across one of my earlier collections of short stories.

And … let’s say there wasn’t anything definitely wrong with a story or two stories, but over all there was a strong feeling that at that time — and these stories were probably written mostly 20 years ago — I was not in darkness, but I was heading that way. Tip toeing into the shadows. Slipping deeper and deeper into the dark.

Or perhaps it only felt so, because I’m in a very different place now. In many ways, I’m perhaps a different person.

Cracked, still, obviously. I mean, I am an artist.

As an aside, it took me the longest time to accept that. I always thought of myself as merely a craftswoman, but I realized recently what the difference is.

Part of it, again, was Maggie’s comment.

Look, it’s like this: If you’re a craftsperson, you can do your craft or not. You might do a lot of crafting, if you’re preparing for a show or doing a craft piece for something special, or you might lean back and take it easy. And you might be innovative or not, there are all sorts.

And of course, the difference is not qualitativate. There are excellent crafts people and lousy artists.

So, what makes someone an artist: If you’re an artist you’re driven to create. You have to. You can’t stop yourself. And if for some reason you can’t create — the d*mn thing is finicky. Certain medicines, a lack of sleep, too much stress, possibly too little stress, and there you have it. The idea is there, the drive is there, and the words won’t come. So if you can have periods of silence what is the difference between that and craftsmen? Well, mostly the fact that when you’re an artist, even when you’re not creating, you still want to.

We want to, because we create for no rational purpose, but to ease something inside us that is seriously wrong and might never be fixed. (In fact, probably won’t.)

Now, this doesn’t mean we can’t shape what comes out of our pen, or our brush, or whatever the tool of our art. Most of us who are professionals know it can be shaped, to a point. We take whatever the raw urge is, and modulate it to be something the public will enjoy (or at least we hope so.) Even if, sometimes, things will just stop, and then there isn’t much you can do. Except fret and fume and hurt.

Now, you don’t get seriously cracked without something making you so. And these things aren’t usually fun. And they leave darkness behind: anger, ptsd, a feeling of not belonging, feelings of guilt or worthlessness. A certain feeling of not being okay with yourself.

But the art is working through it. Finding ways to integrate it. Or, of course, revisiting, emphasizing it, rebreaking the already broken.

You’re going to fall one way or another. And for me for a long time the art circled around the pain, revisiting it over and over. You can get very powerful art that way. It’s just not good for you, long term. And it might not be particularly good for the people who read it either. There’s a whole lot of unwholesomeness that can communicate subconsciously.

And perhaps the greatest art is to reach for surmounting the darkness and integrating your break and lighting a beacon that others who are lost can see and dig their own way out.

Well, it is something to reach for. And even if not reaching it, you’re aiming the right way when you fail….