It has been so long since I’ve added anything here. I keep thinking about posts I wanted to write: about my trip; about why it is so difficult to write a long-overdue letter of thanks, one I keep writing in my head; about the novel editing process; the differences I see between here in West Savannah (not exactly the same as Savannah of the pretty pictures and tourist dreams) and Toronto. So many subjects, but this blog loomed over me like that precious first page in a new notebook, blank, waiting for perfection.
I am finally going to dive in and smudge and sully it, just like I finally did in that book of watercolour paper that my father handed me my first or second day here. I sketched, I played with soft crayons, painted on some masking liquid, and finger painted, scratched at it and dabbed. It turned out some of it was oil paint so it took forever to dry. It looked a mess, but then it kind of took on some kind of form. Nothing great, or even special, but it was my first effort and it showed that book that it wasn’t too special or precious for me.