I’m showing at the Public Library again. July and August 2025.

It’s a bit strange to think that I have been writing one story for 25 years. Like my life over that time, the story has morphed to fit the lay of the land my path has traversed. In the early days, I was mentoring creative young people in a wide variety of mediums. Photographs of them were the seed from which The Adventures of Flash Meridian grew. Those young humans also grew, and went off to settle in their own sector of the universe. I wasn’t done, and so I adapted. My daughter, who was four years old when I began this project, morphed from the powerful little space girl to K.D. Bazinga, to the KD Head, to Flash Meridian’s daughter, living in the mountains of Olo. I had to find the new characters in my mind, and so I populated my own universe with a floating bucket, a humming sphere, a benevolent king and queen, and my pets, who have comforted me in that world and this one. They have been joined by many others who have flown, swum or walked to my doorway. I lift the iron latch and pull the heavy door open to welcome them in, as I welcome you, reader. As I, the writer, have gone through the transitions of life, my the story has also changed in ways I couldn’t have anticipated. I grieved the losses along the way, unaware that the best was yet to come.

For me, creativity is just being interested in something, and then responding to it. I do it in paintings, drawings and photographs, but that’s after I’ve been inspired. Inspiration comes from outside of me. It enters my brain through one or more of my senses. Then it is no longer outside. It’s gotten in. My neurons devour it, or at least respond to it. They move the pieces around, figuring out what they can do with it. My job is just to be open, and put myself out where I can see it in the first place. My brain is dissecting it before I’m conscious of it. I don’t try to be creative. When I do try to conjure some creative output, I find myself frustrated or disappointed. It’s like a seed that is planted when I see. It begins to grow long before it pokes its head out where I am aware of it. I’ve always done this. The more I do it, the less panic I feel. With practice I guess I get better at responding. I can only catch the fish that are in the water. I have to relax. The little ideas of today may be bait for the deeper waters of tomorrow. I’m my own inspiration and obstacle. My expectations both spur me on and get in my way. All I have is this moment to sit and rest, and allow the visions to loosen and flow.

I inspired myself this week. I went back and read my own words written over the past several years. When I write, I imagine an unseen audience out there somewhere, that will be moved to take a chance and tell their own story through art. I hadn’t really anticipated needing that reminder myself. Coming full circle like this really makes it all worthwhile for me. I picked up a brush and smeared paint on a canvas, just like I told myself to. Yes, it was a familiar theme, my go-to trees against a cloudy sky. After a few days of building up the paint on a loose forest, I saw unintentional fish in the branches. They just appeared everywhere on their own, and they made me happy. They swim inside me, and they wait for an opportunity to slither out my fingertips and onto the canvas. About a year ago, I lost my cat, Lempi. I loved her for 10 years, and felt her loss every day for a year. Recently, I met a cat at the shelter who had a face like hers. This past week, we brought Neeta home. Neeta had lived for months in a small kennel, surrounded by other cats, and hearing the constant barking of dogs. Now she has a quiet house to explore. She is clumsy, learning to use her muscles for running and playing again. She’ll wait by a closed door, for an opportunity to dart into the bedroom, or out into the hall. She’s like those fish, waiting for a chance to flash in the light as they escape my hand and enter the painting.

I’ve sold a lot of paintings in my life. That has been wonderful for many reasons. It’s been a source of income, which at times, has been very helpful! That is not the reason I paint! It’s hard to say exactly what inspires me to be creative. I think it’s an unearthing of what I’m made of. I find artifacts when I dig in the soil of myself. I can say things visually that I can’t put into words. Not with the same effect, anyway. I love words. But words aren’t brushstrokes, so they say things differently. Painting is a sort of therapy for me. A world of color where I get to express whatever I feel, or whatever I want to. No one gets to dictate what I do. The thing that inspires me to create, is what makes people visit a museum, maybe. I want to see the pictures! I can not see these paintings unless I paint them. I may not know what I want to paint, but I can still dip a brush into the paint and apply it to the canvas. That initial mark making primes the pump, and then one stroke inspires the next. This is also common when I write. I start assembling words in a sequence, and then it dawns on me Oh! That’s where this is going! I’m retired, so I don’t always have a plan for the day. I get up anyway, and follow my footsteps to later see where I went or what I did. Tonight I stayed in the bath so long the water went cold. Do you want to know what took so long? I read half a book… that I wrote! I was inspired by my own words. You might think that sounds pretty self absorbed. Yep. And I enjoyed reading what a previous version of me had to say. It’s like looking at one of my paintings, or thinking the thoughts in my own head.