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.