Is It Worth It?
A Moment Slid By Again—and Still, I Made Something From it
Is It Worth It?
I asked myself this morning,
as I dragged one more body of work
through the long, echoing hallways of my studio space.
Is it worth it?
As I posted one more thing on Instagram
about my latest show.
Is it worth it?
As I wrote twenty more pages
in a book I’ve been working on for years.
Is it fucking worth it?
And if it is—what does that even mean, anyway?
I’m not anyone.
Just someone who had a lot stacked against her from the start.
I stumbled into a life making movies and television.
It wasn’t gifted to me.
I’ve spent 27 years
dedicated to a craft that’s crashed into trees,
roadside attractions, and traffic signs—some unknown to me.
Sometimes I was tied to the trees.
I make art.
I express because I don’t know how to do anything else.
I don’t know why I do it.
I don’t know who I do it for.
All I know is that it got me through:
—my little sister dying,
—a childhood of domestic violence,
—the death of my husband at 40,
—and the death of my father, three weeks ago.
What do I know about what creating needs from me?
What creativity asks?
I’ve never said to it,
“What can I give you?”
But it’s always shown up for me—
in the form of projects, people, and perfect openings.
It’s steered me back on course
when I’ve been so lost no GPS could find me.
Is it worth it?
I don’t know.
People ask that all the time in human relationships.
But I want to ask it of creativity—
because she has never asked me
to be anything other than exactly who I am.
Why wouldn’t I be faithful?
Why wouldn’t I stay devoted?
Why wouldn’t I keep making things with paint—and now, pen?
We made a sacred agreement, me and her.
Travels I said I would write about once I was home,
riverbeds I promised to paint.
Poetry written in her name.
Admiration poured into pigment.
Steadfast dedication in every brushstroke.
I’ve shown up for creativity, for inspiration—
with no money,
just a pile of hope and trust-to-dust—
and not once has she let me down.
Why would I invest anywhere else?
She’s the one who showed up
at the foot of a hospice bed
when my husband looked at me and asked,
“Am I going to be okay?”
It was her who forced me to say,
“You’re doing real good. Real good, honey.”
She and I knew the outcome.
We knew this piece of art
wasn’t making it out the door
the same way it entered.
Maybe that’s what I live with now—
the abandoned canvases stacked in my basement,
all 196 of them.
They pile up between us,
whispering a language no one else understands.
Maybe we did speak our own language.
I can’t paint the hieroglyphics out of that.
And I don’t want to try.
I’d rather it be buried and known in our souls
than exposed for all to interpret.
So maybe that means
none of what I made
will ever connect with anyone else.
And maybe…
if that means keeping this love sacred—
then that is the way it will always be.
And I’m okay with that.
Is it worth it?
I think the better question is:
When is it not?
🔒 Keep Reading: For the Ones Who Stay Faithful to the Work No One Sees
This next part is for those of you still showing up—
with a tired heart, unfinished work, and no idea why it still matters.
If you’ve ever asked the question and been met with silence…
Or if you’re holding onto a dream that no one else believes in…
I wrote this next part for you.