I spent a season in wonderment of composers of musicals. They have to know about so many things: writing music, the effects of different instruments, singing, choreography, storytelling.
I went through a phase where I was jealous of visual artists. Because I felt like visual artists could do anything and get away with it. (Sorry if this offends. It’s because I actually don’t know much about visual arts.)
Sometimes I think that I could have been any kind of artist and the main reason I decided to be a writer is that it was the most accessible art. I liked that I didn’t need to wait for anything or anyone to begin. Prose writers: we are impatient. Minimalist. Desperate.
But there is one more artist I would like to stereotype–which is the poet. The past two weeks I got to know a poet (and a composer and a painter and a photographer). And what I realized—what we all realized sitting together at a table—was that each one of us had the possibility of making it big. A slim possibility, but a possibility still. Except for the poet. The poet will never make any money off of her art.
So dear poet, why do you do it?