Is anything I do truly original? I'd gone over it a thousand times and still, the thought seemed to plague me: I'd come up with something over morning coffee, spend an hour on the internet, and lo, there would be someone else who'd thought of it, or something close to it.

I marveled at my ability to shoot myself down before I'd even begun.

Paralysis. Sitting in front of a completely blank canvas, I had chewed myself up to the point where the first mark was taunting me, daring me to be bold enough to tackle it. What could I see? Well, everything and nothing. Maybe I'll make another cup of coffee and see if that makes any difference.
So, now I'm truly stumped, three cups of coffee, eyes bugging out from all the caffeine, and I'm coming up with nothing after nothing, high speed nothing, followed by internet nothing, then... no, please not that: Wikipedia.

"Dammit, would you look at this!" I'd turn the computer to my boyfriend. "Someone else has thought of it."

"Not like you." He'd reply calmly and go back to his book. I always thought he was patting me on the head when he said things like that.

I make my living with art. That's what I keep telling myself. The journey was a hard one. I'd done odd jobs here and there, everything from slogging fish in Alaska to waiting tables. I'd worked in warehouses shipping offices, and all of it boiled down to one last and final day where I heard that little creative voice in my head say: Sure you're paying the bills, but are you really living the life you wanted? Is this any closer to being an artist?

"I'm not an original. What I have is not something people want. If I had been meant to think for myself, make my own way... if I was someone special, it would've happened by now, right?? What do you mean 'Not like you'?" I had the temerity to finally ask. I closed my computer. He looked up from his office chair that we'd put in the kitchen, because it was the only place in the house not covered in our art project stuff. I looked around for a minute, waiting for his answer.
"You're just saying that, right?" I prodded. "I'm not fishing for a complement here, I'm genuinely frustrated. Got nuthin' and nuthin' more is coming. I get on the net and feel like this tiny scrap in the middle of the universe. Even if I wanted to make a difference or make something wonderful, I don't matter..."

"It matters if you make it matter." He took his glasses off.

"What do you mean by that?" I unfolded from my chair and padded around to the coffee pot.

"Well, this book, for instance, I'm reading it, right, so it means something to me. The guy that wrote it, it meant something to him, but sitting here closed, it's not doing anything. If, say, the writer kept it to himself, neither one of us would have the chance to enjoy it, from the writing, or the reading. I never get tired of reading adventure books, because no matter how many there are, none of them are the same, absolutely none." He waited for me to digest that.

"But there are so many out there. How do you even pick which one?"

"I look and see what I like. The point is: No one makes art or anything else, quite like you do. You're one in infinity dollbaby." He Crossed his ankle on his knee and sat back. "All you have to do is make it, and put it out there so someone can enjoy it. You worry too much about whether it's been done before. All you need to worry about is have you done it? Do you want to make it? Well then, even if it were a chair, I'm sure you'd come up with something fun, and chairs have been around as long as people have had asses."

After we both laughed, I thought about it for a minute.

"I know, biologically speaking, that none of us are exactly the same, I mean, even twins come close, but they have their own perspectives... that makes sense." I walked back around the counter and looked at the pooling light on our dice game. The evening had dimmed everything down to grey. I'd wasted the entire day on this conundrum and I'd just noticed that even our pots and pans were hanging from a headboard we made into a pot rack. There wasn't anything in our house that didn't have the artist's touch.

"What I'm saying is no matter what, your vision is unique. No one has had exactly the same experiences that you have, so your perspective is your own. Share it."
"Ok, so what if people say that I'm just knocking off so-and-so?" "Well, unless you measure it stroke for stroke, take yourself back in a time machine so your materials are aged just perfect, and make sure you mimic every movement and every thought of another artist, it's still got your twist on it. Do you think you're likely to do that anytime soon? Because if you are, I'd like to take your time machine to next week and find out the lottery numbers."

"Well, should I be worried about someone stealing my ideas?"

"How are they going to do that? Come and take over your mind and body? I'd like to know that too, so I know who I'm dating." He smiled, I smiled "Whatever you're worried about it's simply not true. Not true for anybody. Genetically speaking, you are the only you. I am the only me. It follows that, if you are the only you, than what you make, whatever it is, will be the only one made by you. Unique. No matter how many similar items you find. There isn't a single painting or sculpture on the internet exactly like yours." He smiled and winked at me.

I sat there for a few minutes. Opened my computer up and started printing off all the images that inspired me. I looked at all of them and enjoyed them as if I wasn't worried whether or not I was headed there, stealing, or anything. I filtered it through my own unique perspective, came up with a lot of images that had absolutely nothing to do with what I was looking at. Soon I got lost in the tide of information and an overpowering desire to create emerged. I definitely felt I had something to say. I'd finished a short series of sculptures and drawings, but was now branching out into what I considered a more "serious" commitment; panels, canvas and paints. I had all the materials, and had done some experiments.

I knew I had to go be a clerk the next morning, so I was overcome with a sense of urgency. I was running out of time. I hated the fact that work always got the best of my creativity, and I got what was left, but I hated even more, feeling like I wasn't living my life.
What if.....
What if I were to give as much time to my art as I did my shit job?

The thought sang out like a light in the darkness. What if? Well..
I pulled on my slippers and went into the work room, where an old children's easel held the first wood panel in my stack. I got out the bucket of creamy black paint and scrawled the first thought that came into my head.

"The Hardest Thing You Will Ever Be is Nothing."

Hilarious.
What I didn't know was that it was the beginning of a most wonderful and terrifying journey into my view of the human psyche. It led to over 80 paintings in an ongoing series I now call "The Human Condition Series." Looking back, I laugh that the whole thing started with a non-idea. Really.
What I ended up learning is something I carry with me as my first weapon against hopelessness: The only thing I have to do, is be myself, it just turns out that that's the only thing I can do. So I've stopped worrying about originality, and I'm sticking with the thing I know the most about, even if it's still a mystery: Be my best self. Easy street. From now on I didn't have to worry about anything. I watched as my mind laid out an entirely new road, my road, and at any time I could choose to grow, change, become. There wasn't anything holding me back.