I left full time software consulting on the last day of February this year to pursue making art. This does not mean, necessarily, that I will earn a living from my creative work. Nor does it mean that I even want to. But it does mean that, for this chapter of life, creativity comes first.

The reality of boundless time to pursue art is that you waste large swaths of time on petty bullshit. But this is part of the deal. You have to find yourself disgusted with your sloth before you can get to work.

My main objective is to finish my novel, codenamed The Mask of the Red Death. It’s a semi-autobiographical book about my experiences during and after the coronavirus pandemic. I started the initial planning in 2021 in fits and starts, and have continued to grow it ever since.

A large part of the creative process is sitting idly. Ideas tend to emerge when the mind is unencumbered by duties and distractions. The computer is the worst place for me to write. Too many distractions. I’m writing this on a yellow legal pad. I’ll transcribe it later. This gives the mind space to do its thing.

Fear of judgment is a hurdle for me, especially in today’s hypersensitive world. Will my words offend someone? I ask this question often. I don’t hope my words will offend someone, but if they do, that’s their problem. A better question: If my words offend someone, does their substance make it worth it?

I bought an acoustic guitar last autumn. When I’m blocked, or angry, or sad, I pick it up and play a song. My current standards are In The Aeroplane Over The Sea by Neutral Milk Hotel, All My Little Words by The Magnetic Fields, and Hallelujah by Leonard Cohen. Playing music exorcises the depression demons and restores the heart.

I don’t play guitar for others, nor do I write for others. But I also don’t play or write for myself. I play and write for a higher power, as I understand it. The world depends on it.