The Drop

I might have a lead. Out of nowhere, an email dropped into my inbox like a beacon in the fog—an inquiry, a whisper of interest from a collector. My work. My figurative pieces. The sexual ones—risqué but never tipping into the vulgar. Always on the right side of good taste. I make sure of that. This morning, I fired off a reply, careful, measured, the bait perfectly set. Now I wait, dangling the line like a desperate fisherman praying for the big catch. I need a big fish. Hell, I need any fish at this point.

For the first time in what feels like months, there’s a slow-motion sense of worth creeping back into my veins. A flicker of recognition. Maybe I’m still in the fight. I know I’m a great artist—one of the real ones. But I’m invisible, constantly choking on the fumes of mediocrity swirling all around me. Everyone’s an artist now. Everyone’s a goddamn rockstar, shouting into the void with their pastel sunsets and shallow bullshit.

I blame Instagram. I blame all the socials, throwing open the gates and letting these lunatics rush into the mosh pit—my mosh pit. A sacred place for the real and the talented, hijacked by hacks who paint like toddlers and call it a movement. Meanwhile, I’m here, treading water in this cesspool of oversharing and hashtag hustle, waiting to claim my rightful place at the top.
Meanwhile, I’m back to the blank. That canvas is on its last leg—scarred, beaten, mocking me from the corner. But this is it. I’m going to start this new piece if it kills me. I’ve had enough of the waiting, the circling, the excuses. I’m going in. Hold on—kettle’s on. Coffee first. Am I ready? Hell no. But ready doesn’t matter anymore. It’s time to paint.