The end of ninth grade was the beginning of quite a long march, though I should say slog, through some particularly dreadful years as my brain chemistry was rewired via puberty. I wouldn't know until the Christmas that I was neck-deep in shit, when the bottled up emotions burst from build up, spraying and gibbering worse than any Diet Coke and mentos experiment I did in elementary school. But, and this is a big but, I had something to channel that into, something to focus all of that pent up energy, and it was art. I wasn't a big painter, but I had my sketchbook, some paint markers, and a lot of free time, and I would just lurk on underground art websites and forums, posting my not-so-good work up for critique from complete strangers that would tear them apart. The reason I did this was to show myself that things could come out of my brain that weren't negativity, that weren't fear or anger, anxiousness or sadness. My mind could still make things that were positive, not just issues that were treated with a supine position on a leather couch and/or bottles and bottles of antidepressants.

Over time, I became less and less private about my art, but I wouldn't go out of my way to show it to anyone. I was, and still am, a big fan of Alex Pardee, an artist who does a lot of work with monsters and graphic horror imagery, and I generally went for the same gross or uncomfortable vibe. I had a mantra in my head that I heard from somewhere, "Art should disturb the comfortable and comfort the disturbed." I took that into account with all of the work I did, even a few pieces I would write over the next year for my creative writing and English classes. I don't know if I had a set goal outside of that; being known for my work would be nice, but I was more focused on using the process as a pickaxe, chipping away at my own rocky exterior to figure out who, or what, I was on the inside. I knew I was no good at it, to this day I'm not very good, but it made all of my different parts vibrate at the same frequency, instead of trying to go in a hundred different directions at a hundred different speeds.

At this moment, though, I kind of feel like never picking up a marker again. Hear me out.

The past months, I've had quite a handle on myself, on those parts of my brain that export nothing but negativity. I just don't have a stream of thought that I need to direct into something colorful or visual. My writing has become my main outlet, and I'd like to focus on that at this point in my life. I want to see if I have the potential to do something big in the world of literature. I want my dream venue to change from a gallery to a bookstore, and I'm very comfortable with that. Art, drawing, it helped me when I needed it, and if I need it again, it will always be there for me. Picking up a pencil is like riding a bike: you never fully forget how.

It would be stupid to think that my latest art class didn't have some kind of influence on this decision, and I could go in detail, but all I will say is that you should ask me in person. It's definitely an interesting set of stories filled with words I'd rather not have attached to my name forever on the Internet. "What are they?! Who could they be about?!" Maybe two of you are thinking that, so just let me know if you'd like me to flesh out the entire experience. Until then, I'm gonna stick to writing science and fiction and science-fiction. Because that's what makes me happy, and that's the best reason to do anything.