I still miss the every Tuesday practice of finding a sentence and painting it, but the year was up last April 1st. The show in the Cafe' was wonderful. 44 pieces made it up on the wall and 23 were sold. Those sentences are hanging all over now.
Speaking of now. It is Fall and I am supposed to be rewriting The Red Canoe, a novel set in Montana and Oregon about stolen art, Goethe, a paint store and a possibly dead shamanic healer. I've been afraid to dive back into this book.
I like what Mary Ruefle says about writing letters--Many will disagree, but for me, I do not care if I am writing a poem or a letter--it is just making marks on a sheet of paper that delights and envelops me.
Marks on a sheet of paper.