Most here know me for my writing. I have been an illustrator and designer for most of my life, too. My Other Art.
I have always been at odds with my visual abilities. I can draw anything and I can emulate any style. It seems sacrilege against the muses to say:
Understand: I love the zone I am in when working with pastels, or wearing out a 4b.
But it is nothing like the pure-d driven steel ingot pinpricklesleet brainfire ferociousloveclaw cleverspindizzy wetbite razorwire GOOD that writing is for me.
I am a writer. (And I can draw and design.)
Some of what I do:
For The New Yorker
"Mother and Child" original quilt design
For me, my daughter Eliana, at 2 days and 7 years
But when I write it is burn and do, or die.
Radiant steam has amassed in me since I was 5. Reading more than anyone I know or knew, devouring books, always books, drifts of books by every bed, always reading -- until finally, in my late forties, I find I have a Voice, and have everything to say, and can say it in every way. And I get better faster now, too.
I need only hitch my overalls, adjust my lowers, and write.
I am now the writerly delirium of three stooges plumbing, cross-connections for the sake of patterns corrected-as-we-go. The divine lunacy of water/words everywhere, pipe/sentences for multi-purposes, fittings/meanings for all seasons. We'll see where THIS goes!
I build until my home bursts, then my fearless writer heart eats Chicago, supplants Paree, conquers Thrace; I erect my hisstremble racket over every countryside, a fertile landscape of leaks and gushes and leaded joins and marvelous valves.
I amaze and stupefy, shatter hearts and amuse no end, plumb for the world the holysmoke marvel in me, re-built of spare parts, otherly ideas and barbarian constructs, from life itself and the books I devoured for 40-some years -- and still read into my system, at every opportunity: late at night, rudely at the table, on my way to get more ice, standing in the weather; my books forever dog-eared, stained with chocolate and thumb-oil and fat plops of rain pucker...
And interleaved with all my reading now is beloved padfrompocket; my own words play, my own words work.
My pen in hand, scritch scritch scritch, scritch scritch scritch, scritch scritch scritch.
Drawing? just an accident of birth and always feels like this: