an excerpt from my book

Forward: (unedited version)

As I sit here writing this there is a live chicken in my bathroom and a nude painting of Rachael Ray on my easel. It is 4 am and in five hours I have to delver a painting of the brooklyn bridge for the cover of the NYC yellow pages. My brain is frozen in fear and I haven't slept in two days. My first painting was an utter failure and the art director threw it in the trash. I have to finish "my bridge" but instead I am writing this. I will do anything to avoid a deadline--- I always put myself right up against the electric fence of fear and failure and somehow I manage to squeak it on through at the 11th hour and make everyone happy. It is no way to live but it is the only life I know and it fits my nervous system. One of my collectors/ fans calls me "a chancer" that is horrible and fine title that I reluctantly cop to. Freelancers die young and they leave ugly paint smeared corpses. The stress of art and freelance is a brutal game, it is like waking up every day unemployed and in a soup of misery and doubt. Aside from all this my hand is half broken because I stopped an iphone robbery on the nyc subway and The three people I have told about this robbery story seem to think I am making up the story but for me it is just another day in my life. Where are my brushes? what time is it? I put on my Iron Maiden CD crawl to my art table while the rest of the world is sleeping and reach for the purple--yes, the bridge will be purple this year..tick tock tick tock