I’m nearing the end of week two of my MG/YA class. It’s distracted me from pressing concerns (husband’s job loss) and art. The art that will help pay our bills. I’ve created art since my chubby toddler fingers would hold a crayon. For almost twenty years, it was my career. Why now, when I need it most, does my mind refuse it?
I know the answer. Writing kidnapped my brain. All those years, the scribe in me waited patiently for art and horses to move aside. Then it opened like a magnolia and pollenated my mind with enough story ideas to keep me scribbling for the rest of my days. It’s so so hard to force that blossom into a corner.
I’ve tried. Last weekend, I sanded and drilled sixteen wood plaques to make decorative leash holders for local shops. I collected photos for sample portraits. Monday morning, I read my email, checked in with my class, and typed my blog post. That afternoon I made an incredible mess painting a base coat on the plaques. Tuesday started badly and I sought solace in my class lesson. The art, piled on the dining room table, sits there still.
Last night, I created a rigid schedule for the days to come in hopes I’ll stick to it. But next weekend, I’m attending a positive training class for kittens as fodder for non fiction. From opposite corners of my brain, a flower and a paintbrush glare at each other, their boxing gloves primed.
