I was raised by the Nonappreciators. The people who look at art and say, “I could do that.” Art is not beautiful or unique; it is the generic result of idle hands. The sunset can be declared miraculous, because it is something that we cannot create. We can look at it and say, “I cannot do that, therefore it is beautiful.” But man-made things are not awe inspiring. How stifling can this viewpoint be creatively? Why take the time to create something, put pen to paper, strike that brush against the canvas, if it is something that is inherently common? For what do we all want but to believe that we are unique? I find it boggling to imagine how many moments of inspiration are lost because I told my muse to go away. She tapped and tapped at my shoulders, until they hunched over from the weight of words and images that were forever trapped in nonexistence. Purgatory for inspiration. She grew old and frail, refusing to go away, dragging me, zapping my energy, making my mind spin in circles. I may not be ready to have an all-night, two bottles of wine conversation with her, but I am acknowledging her presence. And she is beautiful, because she is common. She is the common intellect of humanity, collected into a basin of ideas and imagination. And she is trying to share. Who am I to refuse this generosity?