First, dont. Dont intend to write about art. Write about something else. Go into debt for a MFA in creative writing in the school with courses on delirium and prose. Write brief poems about a novel about genocide in Africa or sex with strangers. Apply for tasks to be even a copyeditor for a handbook or an editor of a Video trade paper. Your footsteps shuffle across the rug that is neutered, you go in of the interview in their air conditioned mausoleum a hour from your house. The recruiter appears to like you. You come off as dynamic and bright.
As you pass dozens of sub editors you hear the hype of the ventilation and the turn of one page. Attempt to comprehend it when they don’t hire you. Bednest in depression for more than is appropriate. Count the motes of dust which pass through a shaft of light. Watch back-to back trilogies. Weep. You really like art, but you’ve zilch in formal training. Go to every art opening within the city. Sneak to the premiers of expansive museum retrospectives, awkwardly hang round the beer bucket shows for art college drop outs pinning collages into the walls of coffeeshops, create witticisms half drunk on cheap wine into prospective acquaintances at commercial galleries, even when those chilly crystal palaces spook you with their impressive facades and flinty receptionists.
Pore over each magazine, studying every article and memorizing of the names in each ad. Longingly finger through all the books in the local museum shop. Be relentless in yourself education. Despite the fact that you’re paid nothing due to this, somehow mark these hours in the head as work. You’re even a detective, even a pure researcher, an alchemist digging through prospective fakery and arcane code to find of the secret gold. Your fascination whenever unmet eats through you like acid and you get drunk on all the knowledge. Have a young child. Meet and even hang about real artists.
If they ask what you do, breathe deep. Youve published in school newspapers. Youve made a zine. Youve written short, surreal poems and even a very long unreadable book. They do not know this. You do not feel much like a writer. Fake it til you make it. Act supremely nonchalant whenever you say, Im a writer. With each utterance, you will seem like you are electing yourself president, of the self appointed emperor of an undiscovered country. Or something better. One of the neighbors hands the contact to a publisher in London working for the web site of a magazine in NY. The global glamor gives you even a little shiver. She offers you a concert for even a party at even a boutique hotel on of the Sunset Strip for their social diary.