Being an artist seems to require doing your work without waiting for the right mood, for inspiration, for perfect circumstances. Also, it seems that artists don’t know exactly what they are working towards. Even if there is a clear image of a desired end creation, the way to get there isn’t clear. If it were otherwise, if everything were clear, it wouldn’t be an artist’s way; it would be an algorithm.
For an artist, even if the way seems clear, the traveling turns out differently. It is unclear, or it leads somewhere else, or both.
Even if the goal is ineffable, the artist seems to require a lean, a tilt. Dissatisfaction is source as well as sink.
But if I don’t find myself writing in spite of poor mood, or absent inspiration, or adverse circumstances, and am therefore not now a writer; if I am not drawing or painting, and am not now that sort of artist; if I am not making music and am not now a musician–nevertheless, in doing my work of each day, I am now Artist.