Several years ago my five-year-old daughter bounced into my study and found me hunched and miserable over my typewriter, feeling like a housewife who couldn't get her stove to boil water. Kate wanted to know why I wouldn't play with her. "Because I'm stuck." She wanted to know why I was stuck. "Because it's hard." She thought about this for a minute and said, "Then why do it, Dad? Why don't you cease this activity and become an artist?" By artist she meant painter, of course, but despite its surprising diction, her question was not an unfamiliar one. It was, in fact, a question I'd heard posed all my life, and not just to me. |
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