I had this girlfriend from art school a long time ago. Not particularly talented, but never the less she got by in all the art classes. We were very close and always had a good time together. A lot of the ol’ college day memories include her. And then a day came years later when a mutual friend dropped the bombshell:
“Ethel (not her real name of course) was caught trying to pawn off a well known artist’s work as her own!”
Gasp!!! I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. But Ethel just couldn’t take the stress anymore of not producing decent work (is what I’m thinking) and resorted to the most horrendous crime against any artist. She was suddenly shrouded in black in my mind. I exiled her to the farthest corners of my brain. I know longer knew this woman. How sad and desperate of her. It’s like cheating on a test and being caught. Or having your mother write all your high school essays and now you’re in college and you’re a boat up the creek without a paddle (I actually knew a student who admitted to me that his mother wrote all his essays).
So the moral of my writing? It’s so not worth it. Do something that you’re good at, or preferably great at. Or something you’re willing to work hard to be great at. Because there’s nothing like the moment when you’re rewarded for your hard work. Your own work.