I'm feeling so much better about being here now. It took a long time to adjust. I did a lot of moaning and whining to my friends, who had absolutely no sympathy at all. Certainly the writing muse left me (although the protagonist from the next book continues to hint at possible situations, if I listen carefully during quiet moments), but it seems the painting genie is reemerging after a long absence. (Painting and Writing are close siblings after all, although perhaps yours is an only child.) I've bought a bunch of canvases and will be working on those this weekend. I felt the old excitement as I carried the canvases home from the store. What will the subject be? What will emerge? -- Much the same questions I ask myself when I begin a new book, really.
I know I am a better writer than painter. My artwork is naive, colorful, usually fun, but it doesn't have the spontaneity and assurance of my writing, and certainly doesn't require deep emotional intensity. Novels can be so gut-wrenching to write, can't they? I smile over my paintings, and laugh and cry over my novels. If I were forced to choose, the writing would win.
It's spring here today. Odd, isn't it, if you're reading this in the Northern Hemisphere? I've been waiting for it just as restlessly as if I were back in Ontario, where I would watch for the first crocuses. Sadly, there are no crocuses in this garden, but swags of bottle brush blooms are about to burst forth and the Rainbow Lorikeets are eyeing them wistfully and smacking their beaks.
Perhaps -- where you are -- autumn is on its way. I envy you that. Fall truly is my favorite season. In the meantime, I'll enjoy this Aussie spring, knowing it will be quite unbearably hot in a matter of weeks. There, I'm still whining!
See you next time.
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