So said someone once, I do not remember who, or when, but I remembered it this morning as I was describing my recent reality to a friend. It changed, this reality of mine, and I do believe it changed once I begun to draw the portraits and write the stories.
Before that memorable day, before that walk on the beach on Christmas morning during which I explained to my husband exactly what I was going to do, my life was spent chiefly on reading. I would sit on the porch and read, sit on the couch and read, sit on my lovesit and read. I did some work, now and then, though slowly and reluctantly. Sometime I cooked and sometime I ate. But for the most part I lost myself in my books. There was nothing particularly interesting in my life, after all, nothing that could compete with the fascinating stories of the lives lived by others.
Oh, I thought of all those things I’d like to do, yes, I did think of them. I had plans, ideas and concepts, but they would go blurry and hazy in time. The longer I thought of them, considered them without taking action, the more insubstantial they seemed. Until they were gone, and all that was left was … nothing. [click to continue…]
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