Tortured Artist

Ah!  I still have a blog??!  Why is nobody writing it for me?

I’m still adjusting to life as a tortured artist.  I spend a lot of hours in front of the computer, sometimes typing, sometimes not, sometimes banging my head against the keys then looking up hopefully to see if anything good showed up on the screen.

My picture books are the bright spots in my week.  This month I’ve added to the Mr. Chuck series–the wiry-haired substitute teacher whose good intentions always get bungled.  I’ve written about the unlucky leprechaun who gets stuck in all the traps.  I wrote a story about a boy who buys a hot air balloon with a penny, and another about rock with big dreams of running a marathon.

My novel is a different story.  I regutted it only to find that the remodel job is actually a new construction job.  My writing coach is wonderful, but the things she asks me to do are hard.  For me, writing has always been like breathing, so hearing the advice is like someone telling me that I’ve been breathing wrong my whole life.  I’m a very strong breather, and my breathing is beautiful, and I shouldn’t stop breathing, but turns out I was supposed to be using gills.

It’s sink or swim, and I’m still walking around the edge of the pool, afraid of doing either.

Anyway.  I think I’m happy this way, and  I know I’d be devastated if I stopped.  So I guess I’ll just keep going, circling and circling that pool until I’m brave enough or hot enough or stupid enough to get back in.

Chicken cordon bleu
Fresh fruits & vegetables
Mint chocolate mud pie

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