You Are Not An Artist.

You are not an artist in your own right.

Someone said this to me because I didn’t have proof of my artistry. So, naturally, lacking tangible evidence equals uncreative. Their words pierced like a rusty nail, driven into my chest with a screwdriver and its weak handle. To say this comment hurt is an understatement. Not because I believed them, but because I didn’t.

Unfortunately, my identity as a creative is something I’ve only recently embraced. Despite the glaring signs noted by my friends, family, and even the trees on the side of the street, I convinced myself I wasn’t an artist. How could I be?

Artists sing and dance. They get on stage, twirling their bodies to carefully crafted melodies or hitting harmonies the greater population can’t. Their whistle tones and synchronized pirouettes make others jump, scream, cheer, or cry, inspiring white women to make friendship bracelets. Me? I dance in the dark, my headphones tight to my head, and twirl in whatever small space my home affords me. My voice doesn’t carry beyond my five-hundred-square-foot apartment. My audience and stage are the random appliances that litter my countertops and the kitchen floor that’s overdue for a sweep. The quirky sway of my body and the crack in my voice have not encouraged tears.

Artists draw. They bend and blend colors to create imagery that makes people slow down and stare. Without uttering a word, they convey that black means freedom and pink is suppression. Their imagery holds any and every complicated interpretation, so onlookers applaud and hang their art by the fireplace. My colors don’t speak. My art hangs in online spaces touched only by a few eyes outside of my own.

Artists write. And they write and they write and they write. Language is their chisel to carve out and mold meaningless stardust into something digestible and permanent. Letters fall from their fingers to either record or make history, powerful enough to build community or start wars. Should their work invoke any feeling from the masses, the best of them are gifted with golden statues and legacy. My chisel is new and dull. My stardust is too murky for awards and too hopeless for legacy. Unread poetry sits on my computer. The list of drafts from years of creative bursts continues to grow. I’ve yet to manipulate language in a way that inspires people to bless my hand with expansive metal.

This would mean I am not an artist, right? I used to think so. That is, until I used my chisel to craft a new definition of “creative” and “artistry” so that I could swing the terms over my back and carry them effortlessly and proudly. I now bask in the power and light of such titles, no longer fearing that my hands aren't worthy. I’ve stopped discounting the magic that spills from my fingers as anything less than, well, magical. At least I’m working on it.

You are not an artist in your own right.

Fuck that. I am an artist. I’ve always been.

I’ll continue to be.