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Dirty, Dirty Writer

29 Apr

Friends, I’ve been working on a book that I actually wrote about four years ago. I’ve probably edited it about nine times now. It never ceases to amaze me how many mistakes one can still find after a gazillion edits.

This time around, the book WILL BE PUBLISHED. Period. My inner renegade has awakened. And it’s only April.

When I get into this writer/editing mode it consumes me. I sleep four hours a night. I can’t watch an entire television show without thought bubble interruptions. I’m constantly scribbling notes to self. It’s a dark world but not so dark because whenever I delve in to my literary-ness I sense hope.

But while in the midst of this right brain-ness I become a loner who mumbles a lot and forgets to change my clothes or brush my teeth.

I feel a film forming on them. I think it’s mold.

‘Til next time.

Gone body cleanin’.

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The Year I Lost My Mind

24 May

Well, actually I’ve lost it plenty of years but we’ll just talk about 2006.

I moved from home (D.C. area) to North Carolina in search of…well, in search of happiness. I always thought moving from one familiar place (read: expensive, congested, expensive) to a new, exciting place would solve all most some of my problems, quell the angst brewing in me.  North Carolina, particularly the Raleigh area, was becoming a boom place. A lot of folks were moving there and oohing and aahing over it like it was Mecca. Or Nirvana. Or the closest east coast form of heaven on Earth. So after much hestitation and analysis paralysis I jumped. I had big money saved. The house flipping craze was in full effect (there were, like, 50,000 TV flip shows airing then) and I had auspicious giddiness at making a ton of money locating shacks and turning them into–ahem–cottages. 

So I moved there after two visits where I drove through most of the state, minus the mountains. Didn’t know a soul. Got an apartment for like $650. The last time I had an apartment in D.C. costing that it was 1997, it was an efficiency with noisy neighbors and I think Clinton was president.

I sat in my empty apartment with my stuff still back in D.C. in storage.  Soon my floor looked like this:

Have you ever been so far into a thing, an idea, that you can’t pull yourself out of it even when it’s a dead-end, a closed door, a sinking ship? I had no crew. I had no carpentry skills. I had no job. I just had equity from my recently sold home and those darn flip shows playing in my head. I saw people with zilch experience flipping houses and making $25K over two months. That kind of money. I blinked dollar signs. It was my true “If you build it they will come” moment. Only problem is, I was just thinking it. There was no building, no paper signing, no “here are the keys to your–ahem-shack, Miss Artist.”

It also didn’t help that I picked up a book about Samuel Mockbee and his Rural Studio deliciousness.

2006 became 2007 and 2008 and 2009 and…Here I am still running from a return to CubicleVille. No flip having occured. No grand $25K payday in one month’s turn around. Back in D.C. Back to the beginning of me. Doing art. Struggling. Hoping. Cringing every time I think of those flip-a-house! shows.

I think I’m depressed now.

Other Artists

20 May

I’m kind of bent on whether or not I like to hang out exclusively/primarily with fellow artists. I mean, it’s one thing to mesh ideas; it’s another to steal them. I’ve had several artsy “friends” literally steal ideas right out from under me. And if that wasn’t bad enough, have the AUDACITY to showcase my idea to me.  True balls and thievery. Guilty balls. I’ve become slightly paranoid–ok, seriously paranoid–hanging around other artists at times.

I made t-shirts in college–handpainted funky slogans, etc., only for a close friend (and a cousin!) to have a sudden interest in t-shirt life.

I made polymer clay creations only to have others take a sudden interest in clay.

I started painting not only canvases but furniture (coffee tables & chairs mostly) only to have–you guessed it–thievery.

Oy. Oy. Oy.

Who are these people I’ve been acquainted with?

Note to self:  Find new friends. Pull back on certain relatives.