I was excited this last weekend for the release of the new Gary Clark, Jr. album. He's one of my favorite new musicians. So when I received his album in the mail on Friday, I did the equivalent of locking my doors and closing my blinds. I parked my truck in a church parking lot and turned off my cell phone. Then I listened, brimming with excitement. As is often the case when I build something up in my mind, the album disappointed me. Not because it isn't good. It is good. There are three or four standout tracks, and several other good ones. But the album disappointed me because it wasn't what I wanted it to be.

How selfish of me to expect someone else's artistic vision, someone else's artistic journey, to conform to my own. Art is, after all, an individual expression of life. It isn't supposed to be for the masses. If the masses are pleased, much the better, but that shouldn't be at the heart of artistic creation.

After I finished my first novel, I spent a long time trying to decide what to write as an encore. To be clear, my first novel was definitely not a commercial or literary success. Still, the temptation was there to write a sequel and add-on to the world that I had created in my dog book. And one day, I may. But after much soul searching, I decided to go in an entirely different direction with my second novel. There may be dozens of disappointed fans, (dozens may be a gross overstatement), but I am pleased with how my second novel turned out. I am pleased with the artistic expression of its theme, and I'm satisfied with the finished product.

If you are just starting on this journey of being a writer, let me give you some advice. Write for yourself, not for the masses. Make it your own and be damn proud of it. The very best artists thumb their noses at the critics and stay true to the whispers of their soul. The worst artists prostitute themselves out to the will of the world.