The old painter sits in front of the easel, filled with dread. What was, just a few moments ago an elated inspiration, is now fear and loathing of the predicament he placed himself into.

Nervously, he marks the canvas with his preliminary sketch. “Come on, this should be easy,” he says to himself, “you’ve trained yourself in art all you life, so why do you still feel this way?”

Slowly lines are hewn on to the whiteness, and soon shapes take form. Mumbling to himself, “Yes . . . no . . . yes . . . yes . . . no, no, no, no, no!” Disappointed he stares at the lines on the stark white plane. “This is a cliché, I’ve done something like this before!” and he erases some of the sketch.

Hours later, he is once again seated and gazing at the study, grumbling under his breath, “Someone has done this before, and much much better! You are such a fake . . . damn . . . damn . . . damn!”

By now the canvas is what he thinks is a disarray of forms, which he only perceives as a fruitless effort. He slumps back into his chair, and looks at the sketch, “. . . Damn, this is now getting messy! How do I fix it?”

The hands of the clock tick are a steady pace, but to him they seem to fly on the dais as the ticking teases him of the impending doom of utter failure. Yet in those haggard times, colors flurry from the palette onto the canvas, and the once monochromatic line drawings have begun to take life.

“Damn! Damn! Damn!” he suddenly shouts, “another goddamn mistake!” Suppressing the urge to slam his brushes on to the work, he steps back to see the ‘damage’.  “Hmmmmmm . . . not bad, no one will notice it,” he thinks, “. . . but I will!” So he goes on to ‘fix’ the error.

Hours passes on to days, and the painting is nearing completion. The painter is now more at ease with his work, and shows confidence in each stroke of the brush. Then at an instant, his realization of the works near completion dawns heavily on him. “What will they think? Will they hate it?” as the questions gnaw into his psyche.

Now he feels his exhaustion, and the growing doubt is sapping his will. He senses his body is about to buckle, but he continues painting.

The nth day has come, and the work is complete. The artist looks upon his masterpiece in a mixture of awe, disbelief and relief.

“Goddamn it is beautiful!”

“Did I really make that?”

“Thank god, it’s over!”

The next day, the artist is once again cursing his fate, as he stares on a new blank canvas. . .

What makes a true artist is that one can conquer himself and the world everyday, to create an expression of beauty. Despite the ugliness of the world or self doubt, we strive and create. Doubt happens to all writers or even artists. If you feel that you 'suck' in your work, then that is good, because it gives one the drive to develop your art. There is often a healthy degree of self criticism for every artist. Without this creative anxiety, you will become sloppy and come out with truly terrible and incompetent works.

That artist's conquest is what Nietzsche called the uberman.

Yet what makes an artist great is not just the constant honing of mind soul and skill, but the power of influence. Keep creating and sharing.