As I drift back to my prepartum weight, I find myself awakening to charcoal. I'm amazed to see that the little desire is still alive. It has been submerged for years now, and I had not thought to revive it. But, it has started again, and even though I haven't yet rummaged in my cupboards for the stumps that I have left, I recognize its coming, because when I look at people I know, I start to see their planes and smudges, their sparkles and twists, their weight and texture. And they look different every time I see them, instead of the same. This time, I think, it will be easier. This time, I won't have to worry about whether I'm any good. This time, I just have to find a fixative that works.
I had hoped to write. I had hoped, that, one day, it would just hit me, that urge to write, that not being able to live without writing. It hasn't. It is disappointing to find that I am only a reader of books. No creative drive that hits me, ever hits hard enough. Every way seems equally open. Nice problem to have, I think, and I say. But it isn't. I wonder if I've been fooled--by what writers say about writing, by what artists say about making. I've always had a bit more fellow-feeling for the ones who did it for the money. It's probably natural contrariness, but it does seem irritating, this quest for purity in art, and seriousness in literature. The robbing of practicality detracts also from the pleasure. There should be more transitory, and repeated pleasure in art, like the pleasure in life drawing, from sketching, and curving, and following caressingly, and shading--the gloriousness of the curls erased into being, and then tossing it for the next view, the next movement. Which all sounds rather decadent and delicious, until you go home and having nothing to show for it.