I have had no time to devote to my pursuit of an agent or publishing. I have a new grand son. He is completely beautiful. I have been trying to be an artist who can sell paintings. I have sold some, they are little pieces for little pennies. My mind is pursuing outlines of my writing projects I have yet to write. I sort and catalog my ideas but still I merely run in place. Belief in my story gets chiseled away. Thoughts like, well maybe you just suck at writing like your sucky stupid paintings. Are my feet standing on solid ground believing anyone would give a s---t about my little novel? Does anyone hear? Hello? Is there anybody in there?
I learned to paint when I was eight. I picked up guitar when I was twelve. I was young when I had children and did not start any sort of career. I was bitten by the theatre bug in my early thirties. I've painted so many sets that it is difficult to count them all. Sets are not a permanent thing. They are much like the actors that play on them, transient in their importance. As soon as the show is over, then it is taken apart and destroyed. I had to quit my job at The Arvada Center in Colorado, when my back could not take it anymore. For the last five years I have been home mostly writing and painting paintings. It is what I dreamed about doing to make a go of it as a fine artist. There are moments when I truly feel that I am running in place.