Last night the visual artists here hosted open studios. I love open studios. Writers love visual art, don’t we? It’s so inspiring to immerse into a different art form. It fills me up, feeds my own creativity, and I’ve felt so deprived since lockdown began a year and a half ago.
So I walked around studios and was stunned at the amazing work happening here: acrylic and oil paintings, abstracts, portraiture with a twist, geometric imagery, sculpture with leftover plastic combined with strung lights, all sorts of things I’d never think of. What a delight.
And I get to talk to all these people about what we do and why it matters to us and how hard it is but also wonderful. We sat around afterwards and drank wine and talked until it was dark and late and hazy. I slept late this morning.
And today I’ve made progress on my manuscript. Will someone keep reminding me, please, that new writing is supposed to be crappy? To let it be crappy until it’s time for editing? Because that’s what I’m trying to do here: write and move forward and keep moving forward. No piecemeal editing here. That’s for FUTURE AMY. I’m sure glad I’m not her!