What if the muse, the angel, whatever, (your death as seen in retrospect) were to visit you and say, "Hey, buddy, all this effort you're putting into being a novelist? I'm sorry to tell you. It's misplaced energy."What would happen if you knew this now?
What would you do differently?
Questions:
Would you still "hate" the summer so much--the kids messing with your precious art time?
How would it feel to be "normal" as in "no one's gonna discover you (kid)"?
Would you play more?
Would you paint more?
Would you transfer your search for fame to painting?
Would that be better or worse? How? (discuss)
Would you garden more?
Would you wander more?
Would you make glue gun sculptures (more)?
Would you see your friends more? Less?
Would you travel : more or less?
Would you be "happier" or less anxious?
Would you fall into some sort of depression (or chemical use)?
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