Snow flies early in New Mexico at seven thousand feet on the high desert. That is what the dark, brooding skies deliver today. The cold bites through my thin Tucson jacket and the wind has the dried sunflowers dancing a swaying conga line as I make my way along the path to my studio. The studio is a pre-fab building with a wood burning stove. I'll stoke the stove so I can paint without freezing in my quiet little cave. I am not a trained painter. I don't really know what I'm doing or even why I'm doing it. I look at "real" painters like I look at real writers and come face to face with the fact that I will never reach that level of achievement. I failed as a writer, having composed over ten books that were never published. That is nothing, a painter friend told me. "The first five thousand paintings are the worst," she said. Aye. But I made more money selling a painting that took me two hours than I did on a book that took me over four years to write. I guess there is no equation for time spent doing something and the compensation one receives for doing the work. I did not write for the money, nor do I paint for money. I do these things because something inside me wants to get out and to touch some other soul. So I listen to the juniper crackle in the stove, watch the snow fly, count my lucky stars to have a moment to stare at a blank canvas before I struggle with the colors this time instead of words.
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