I'm a painter, and unless this book launches itself into the stratosphere of public consciousness, it's the sole way I make a living. Only problem is, I don't paint vases of flowers or idyllic landscapes or sax players limned by streetlamps, and those images have always had the easiest audience among the buying public. What I do paint are visual metaphors for things that are difficult to put into words, like being stronger than we give ourselves credit for, and owning our demons so that they become our strength in the world. Most art buyers are looking for something pretty to match the sofa. They certainly aren't looking to be nailed upside their heads with self-revelation every time they sip their morning coffee. As you might imagine, traditional galleries haven't known what to do with me.

I launched from the womb, wanting to be an artist. When other kids were getting toys and dolls, all I wanted were art supplies and sketchbooks. And while most toys were discarded or destroyed, I carried my sketchbook with me everywhere, filled all the pages on both sides, and when that book was full, tucked it carefully away and jumped right to the next one. All along the way, I've obsessively documented my journey. From the age of five, I hoarded all my letters, journal entries, and snippets of poetry. I have an unbroken line of stumbling, bumbling drawings, rough sketches for paintings, and portraits of the huge, revolving cast of characters who make up a life. I've watched my skill deepen, delighted in the increased confidence of my hand, and laughed at the changes in my understanding.

An eighth grade teacher saw the battered sketchbook under my arm and gave me my first commission. For copying an ink drawing of Emily Dickenson, I was paid the astounding sum of $25. That I could earn money doing what I loved was a blinding, addicting epiphany. I wasn't just gonna be an artist, I was gonna make a living as one. And that idea went over just fine, at first. Kids are told they can be anything, all they have to do is put their minds to it! But once we hit puberty, determined to make money with our passion, the Hammer of Financial Rationality slams down: "You want to do what? Be an artist? (Or singer, or dancer, or marine biologist, insert your own unusual vision here.) You'll starve! And when you do starve, you'll come running to me! And I'll go broke, too! And you'll waste your life! When are you going to get serious?"

Most cave under this assault.

I didn't cave. I came close, though, lots of times. My response has always been to dig in my heels, narrow my eyes, and do battle. Hating the confrontation, hating that I had to fight for something that seemed to be my birthright, but fighting nonetheless.

Confrontation makes me sick to my stomach, promising a long night of "I should have saids," and I'm wracked with torment at the thought of taking more than three inches off my hair. I like baby steps, being able to look around and gage my progress as I go. Even when I started shaving my legs in junior high, I only shaved 'em from the tops of my socks up, 'cause doing the whole leg was too big a jump for me.

My mother would say, "You're so smart—be a doctor, be a lawyer!" I didn't want to do either of those things. I was going to be an artist, thanks, but my one caveat at a back-up plan was learning to type. That way, in the barest glimmer of a chance that my dream went to hell, I could be someone's secretary. By the time I'd hit seventeen, Mom's mantra became, "Marry a doctor, marry a lawyer."

I have friends who write wonderful novels. An idea pops into their heads:
"What if there was a boy, and he found a silver clock, and the clock did all sorts of amazing things…?" Their characters keep them up at night. Bits of the tale are revealed to them as they shop for Q-tips and lamb chops. They have intensive conversations with their characters to discover motivations and personality flaws.

These people amaze me. Their stories transport us to other worlds, lives, dimensions, possibilities.

I am not one of these people.

Instead, I decided to become the lead character of my own story, and if the tale was to be exciting, creative, and inspired, then that's the way I would go about my life. All the big events of the journey were chapters, and I couldn't focus on the next part of the story until I decided what the milestones were, and what I could have done better. I considered past moments, and asked, "What did I learn? Who were the key players? Have I resolved the conflict, and if not, what steps can I take now to do so?"

Friends began hounding me. "You are writing all this down, aren't you? You do realize that no one else lives like this?" And so I started writing my stories (none of which I could possibly make up) and sharing them with an ever-widening circle. People began writing back:
"You never seem to question anything. I did everything I was supposed to do, but I hate my life. Help me."

"You didn't listen when they tried to beat you down. How did you do that? I couldn't."

"I tell that clown story when you're not around. I always give you credit though."

I've been so blessed by the people who have loved me and kept me sane and supported my work that now it's time to return the favor, even if only by entertaining or sharing the rough path of how I got to where I am. What I've learned above all else is that none of us is alone. We may feel isolated, we may convince ourselves that there is no help, no hope, nowhere to turn, but I swear to you, there is always someone out there who has the answer you seek, even if it's only that they ask you the right question.

There's no guidebook to inventing your own reality. There are no signposts, no fail-safes; no people to ask if the way you're doing something is the right way to go about it. It's like standing in front of a huge, dark, tangled jungle, knowing that what you want is somewhere in there, but you're not quite sure what it looks like and no one else has gotten there the same way and there's no path. You don't even have a machete to hack the undergrowth, and everyone you ask for help insists that you should just turn around, go home, and find a quieter adventure. That if you even step one foot forward, the tigers will eat you.

And sometimes the tigers do eat you, but a big-ass knife would give you a fighting chance. The journey I took through the jungle has been and continues to be extraordinary. I hope that by sharing my path with you, I can give you your first machete.

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