I have taken a circuitous journey to where I am, often finding myself unraveling and then raveling again. Stuck and yet not stuck. Stumbling blindly and then tumbling for joy. Lost and found.
I write, sometimes well. I am surrounded by artists, though I am not one. I believe that creativity is a muscle that needs to be exercised and exercised in different ways, so I dabble – constantly. And encourage others to do so, particularly to keep me accountable.
I was introduced to the idea of “ugly creativity” by a friend to whom I am forever grateful. Pick something random to be creative in, do not try to master it, but instead do it with complete joyful abandon in its imperfections. As we should approach life in general, but never seem to, certainly no matter how much I resolve. Much like the knitting that is my ugly creativity.
I tilt at windmills. I believe in impossible things and especially dreams. And in the wild winds of fortune carrying me onward.
I love books and writing but have struggled to do both in the last few years – hence my present “sabbatical”, where I am succeeding more with the drawing than the writing or the reading.
Once, I hoped to be a songwriter (and still someplace have tapes of me singing my lyrics), but of course I also once wanted to be a bus driver as I planned to have 19 kids (I'm nothing but practical) – obviously, neither of those have panned out.
Instead, I love animals and have two dogs. One of which might have a drinking problem; while the other is clearly a reincarnated World War II doughboy – or a politician. (Don’t ask.)
I was born in the North, grew up in the Middle, went to college in the South, and live in the West. Still hoping to write the Great American Novel – what writer isn’t? Am a little concerned I may have to go on a bender to do it: I often do my best writing while drinking. In fact, my "simpatico" friend, who is many years sober, once dared me to do just that. But first, I need to do a better job of prioritizing the writing....
