Because we all write pretentious poetry about our favorite artists at some point:

van Gogh

They say he went mad at the end.
Absinthe,
Or the sting in his paints.
I think it was the world.
The unsurvivable beauty of it,
Air three inches thick,
Stars bursting into bloom,
The incandescence of hay.
Who can survive this blaze,
Chewing and chewing the meat of the sun?

For Love or Money

"Every artist once was an amateur."
Ralph Waldo Emerson

A friend of mine, during a conversation about life in our respective fields, reminded me of the definition of amateur that I'd forgotten. I knew that it referred to someone unskilled or untrained at their craft. A pastime, an unpaid pursuit, a recreational activity, someone who dabbles; such words are frowned upon, or at least looked down the nose at, by most people. They are also often used in conjunction with fun. Hmmm.
My favorite part is that translated from French the word means “lover of” and from the Latin amatorem (nom. amator) meaning “lover” or amatus pp. of amare “to love.” In other words (according to Webster) “one who performs for pleasure rather than money.” For the love of it. We are so rarely encouraged to do something simply for the love of it. We must, excel, or win, or make lots and lots of money, (which hey, who doesn’t want that?)
I’m going to try doing things just because I love them for a while. This means trying to audition for plays (eek), painting (I don’t know how), and blogging ( I now succumb.) And of course trying to write because I like to, not because I want to be J.K. Rowling. Sadly I somehow have to reconcile all of this with obtaining a steady paycheck and winning bread. I’ll attempt to ruminate on that here. Oh you lucky reader you.