An Iota

 I was reading George Saunders’ new book last night and he is so incredible. The book is about writing and he basically takes the reader through his mind as he teaches a class on Russian short stories. The second of these stories is Singers by Ivan Turgenev. I won’t spoil too much here but Saunders teaches us that an artist, at some point, must choose himself and go with it, warts and all as they say. I’ve no doubt read this in other places but it’s the small anecdote he tells about wanting to be Hemingway and writing all this Hemingway-esque stuff but in so doing not choosing himself as an artist. But then one day while doodling essentially during a phone call, he creates little stories. After the phone call he thought of throwing them away but something caught him. The stories/cartoons wind up on the kitchen table and while off in the other room he hears his wife laughing. The proverbial light bulb goes off above his head and George chooses himself. And of course we are all better off.
Now of course it isn’t this easy. One might choose one’s self but not have the talent of Mr. Saunders. 
So I ask myself: How can I choose myself? 
No clue. 
Write what I like?
Like what I write?
Be who I am? Oof, what if I don’t like myself a whole lot?
Not gonna figure it out by not writing I know that.
Ok, we’ve got something to build on. An iota.

It might be worth mentioning here that the pedagogical upshot of the first Russian short story is this: an artist takes responsibility.

Damn.