As the two-year anniversary of my mother’s death approaches, I’ve felt more and more that I need to say something here:
I’ve hardly written fiction in the last two years.
I’ve always loved art and words. For years, I’d considered myself as much a writer as an artist. I’ve got several completed novels to show for it—all in need of serious editing. I think I just had to get those books out of my system while I struggled with my mother’s illness and other life stresses. I needed to write. I still do, I suppose, but not as a career. It’s a passion and personal—and maybe I’ll write more often if it stays in a journal.
I’ll publish some stories eventually, with covers worthy of them… but for now, they’ll be lovingly placed in the proverbial writer’s trunk. I’m fine with that.
Hopefully, my writer friends will understand. Besides, I’m still—and always will be—a reader! And a writer too, but for myself.
The last two years have changed me for the better. I’ve steered back toward the drive that unites my family, most of whom are artists. In the process of creating fine art, I’ve also rekindled a love for design, which is my actual paid work. I’ve discovered new things to love about the creative process and I wake up every day excited to tackle my to-do list.
My office is now my studio. It’s the best room in the house.
My mother would have been proud. She was an painter and graphic designer herself, before she lost her sight to macular degeneration.
For the first time in many years, I feel absolutely certain about where I’m headed. It’s wonderful.
So, there you go. I don’t post a lot of truly personal stuff online, but my readers here are friends and friends share the big moments and changes in life.