Artful Dodger

I once read an interview with Danielle Steel about how she manages to be such a prolific writer.  She said that you have to write, write, write all day, every day.  She stressed that you cannot always be brilliant.  In five hundred pages of writing, she says, you are lucky to have eighty-five usable pages.  The important part is to put something on paper because that way you have something with which to work.

I find myself in a bit of unanticipated conflict.  I enjoy writing, intending to make good my promise to write every day.  And I have discharged this vow faithfully, logging 145 blogs in as many days.  But sometimes life has other ideas.  I started this project as a new empty-nester looking to put some structure to my writing goals.  I forgot that at various times of year the children come home from college, company comes from out of town, and my duties as a “faculty wife” heat up.  This week has been a perfect storm of distractions.  My daughter returned from a trip to Israel that commenced on the heels of her freshman year in college.  My nephew is moving to town, using our house as a way station until his apartment is ready.  And I must serve duty on the arm of my husband at a series of events related to the culmination of the academic year.  The quiet time in an empty house that I normally fill with thoughtful writing has evaporated.

In Steel’s own blog, she describes sitting in a grubby nightgown at her typewriter, not brushing her hair for weeks as she writes.  A devoted mother, she declines all activities and invitations for months on end unless they involve her children directly.  She always takes off the summer months, knowing from experience that she could not write while the house is full of activity.  I wish I had read this before I made my public blog-a-day declaration.  Even though my daughter is almost an adult and does not need much of my attention, Mother Nature’s wiring does not permit me to act with indifference to her presence.   My mind and my focus are drawn instinctively in her direction.  I want to take her shopping, watch her while she catches up on Downton Abbey, and cook her favorite meals. 

Today we spent the day organizing nearly twenty years of her artwork—pictures and drawings from kindergarten through her college portfolio.   I have already framed some of the more accomplished pieces, but the collection of her life’s works tells a story of evolution and self-awareness that I was anxious to capture.  Finally, we came up with a fun idea.  I took dozens of her pieces (works in crayon, pastel, colored pencil, construction paper, and pencil sketches) to the local Staples.  Using the color copy machine, I created images of these works at 30% of their original sizes.  Carefully cutting out each shrunken "masterpiece," we began laminating them to a primed canvas using decoupage medium, creating a single work of art from a stack of hidden drawings.  It will take another day or two to complete the canvas and then seal it with a few coats of varnish. 

Sure, I feel a little guilty that I did not spend my day crystallizing my thoughts on a key issue of the day, or sharing a reminiscence from my crazy youth.  On the other hand, I feel good about stealing a few hours to chase a different sort of creative (and maternal) undertaking.

Tomorrow's blog:  Don't.  Do.  Dat.