I dreamt I was walking with Walt Whitman.
He was laboring over a poem, as usual.
He was broke and hadn't eaten in two days.
I told him that one day,
He would be admired around the world
And considered by many
To be the greatest poet who ever lived.
He looked surprised, then he laughed and said,
"If they knew what I've had to go through
To gain whatever abilities I have,
They wouldn't admire me at all."
When I heard you say
That your chosen art
Was "just not good enough for anyone",
My first impulse was to soothe the ache,
To say something wise and wonderful,
To somehow find the right words
To erase or render meaningless
The innumerable moments that created that feeling.
But the truth is
No one else can save you.
Looking to others for help
Is what got you into this mess.
If the vessel is cracked,
Any water poured into it
Will run out,
Leaving the vessel empty again.
You must fix the crack first
And only you can do that.
No one else can make you believe
What you have inside is worth sharing.
You have to find a way to believe that
Regardless of anyone else's opinion.
Allowing others to define you
Is like letting the bartender drink your beer.
The reason you should write is not profound.
You were born and now you're here
And you have a right to be
Just like every other living thing
That walks or crawls or flies.
You have a right to create
Just like any other artist does.
In fact,
You have a right
To become a bona-fide Creative Genius.
But friend, you better want it
Because greatness never comes easy,
Not in any field of endeavor.
You will not be spared the agonies
That the Masters endured.
Maybe that's all this really is.
Your turn.
It's nothing personal.
This may be the first, the last,
Or just one of many trials
To see if you've got what it takes
To join their company.
To someday stand,
Shoulder to shoulder,
With Giants.
And guess what . . .
They were all told
By someone, somewhere,
At one time or another,
That they STUNK.
As Einstein said, "Great spirits
Have always received
Violent opposition
From mediocre minds."
And the truth is
(Here comes the hard part),
If you don't make it through this
And the other trials that will follow
(And they will)
If you feel so sorry for yourself
that you bail out
And end up spending a lifetime
Regretting never trying,
You're not an artist.
But if you truly are,
You will know it.
Talent always rises to the surface
One way or another
In spite of all adversity,
In spite of all the critics
Who never stood in the arena
And fought and bled themselves.
When they condemn you, keep writing.
When they applaud you, keep writing.
Live your life and be who you are
Without apologies.
Everyone loves praise
But we shouldn't depend on it.
Even Jesus was criticized.
Why should we be special?
Besides, if everyone agrees with you,
Your work is probably boring.
Buddha said, "Be a lamp unto your own feet
And do not seek outside yourself."
You don't need us.
You already know the answer
Or you wouldn't have asked the question.
You already know what you are meant to be
Or the desire to become it
Wouldn't burn in your heart.
A true artist is someone
Who is put into a dungeon for life
Then builds a glorious statue
From the mud at his feet
Knowing all the while
That nobody will ever see it.
What you would do
In your own dungeon
Has nothing to do with us.
Flowers in the deepest forests
Bloom exuberantly
Whether or not human eyes
Ever see them.
And even if some traveler
Happened to walk past the flower
At the height of its perfection
Would the flower wilt
If he didn't notice?
Would its colors fade
If he didn't pause to inhale its essence?
Of course not. It would keep right on blooming
Because that's what it was born to do.
You should, too.
Honorable winner
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