Inspiration for writing finds me most often on my early morning walks.
This is most annoying. By the time my shoes are untied and a pencil is at hand, nothing is left of those lovely strings of words brought on by the rhythm of trees and the sounds of creatures waking up.
Let me tell you about it this way -
Our little community is laid out like a Mondrian painting; right angles, straight wide streets, cars and trucks in staccato rhythms.
The snowy yard with its purple shadows and old shack is a Monet painting.
Jackson Pollack is woven into the tangle of branches in overgrown ditches.
Nikita Fedosov would be right at home here.
As for me, it really stings when the words I’ve carefully crafted dribble out my ear and into the garden…
I've been sharing the odds and ends of my art life for the last 8 years.