It’s the tiniest of whimpers that pulls me from my slumber. I swipe my phone to check the time: shit, it’s 2:37 am. I had set an alarm for 1:15, but clearly my sleep deprived body had decided not to heed that call. Now I’m in for it. Ten minutes to feed her, six to change her, and forty five to rock her back to sleep enough that she’ll actually accept the crib and let me go pump for another…
That damn little voice. You know the one. You’re reaching into your soul on a project or piece, attempting to reach new artistic heights, when you hear it: “Wow. That’s embarrassing. I can’t believe you went to school for this; clearly you wasted your money. You should have gone into law or medicine, something useful, because you’re never going to make it as an artist, blah, blah, blah…” Inevitably you end up fighting the voice (which is exhausting) or giving…