Writers are from a defiant different weave than painters. I went from brush to keyboard because the brush was a trigger. Too many years alone at my drawing table whacked out drawing, painting, illustrating, and designing print and storyboarding concept was a pursuit I did not seem to know how to do sober and clean.
I had always written news, ad copy, PR BS concept, marketing communications plans, letters to the editor, and political white papers. What changed too quickly to recognize is something huge yet minute happened one wintry icy day stuck inside Tara of the North. If it was a February, I started to spin stories using words instead of visual imagery. They were not great. They were fate.
Whatever the year or the day I began to puny write from my sober heaving heart and not for a NYC invoice. The mind-puking details are sunk in the past. What is hemispherically significant is the bamboo and wire bridge to the other fantasy land, the one of words, waited for me.
In 2008, when I sat here at Finca Vigia, alone with the dogs and wild creatures while my husband continued to run his business in The Hamptons my entire personhood flipped flop. Faced with nothing but myself and the jungle another paper mache boulder was rolled away from the tomb of my writing.
Today, I have no choice. I write as the only way out of the quagmire of a mental, emotional, love-struck, aching political, gecko-saturated, soul-bent space. (Note to Sherif: Verbose enough?) As so many pursuing the slogging path of words admit, we are an odd lot. A sober writer, like me, is rarer than Harpy Eagles in Costa Rica.
Freedom is another word to say we have nothing else to lose.
Fedbook at my intersection, this blog, oh ye fey sources who publish moi, my letters, notes, tweets, and books comfort me as much as birding and whipping up cool jewelry with my brilliant kid grand niece. Politics and social commentary polish the alabaster lens.
I am over cooked from beating the tom toms about the environment. I waited sitting in board rooms for decades to stand up to rant three minutes trying to cajole and convince ignorant elected officials (and NGO wunderkinds) we are sh*tting in our nest, like no tomorrow. Hordes of humans do not give a flying pile of Chernobyl top soil about Pachamama – unless it is their backyard (all hail Nimbyism [not in my my backyard]).
#Egypt is my adored focus and the land of the Nile has been since I was a teenager. It is not important to defend why. It is what it is. Be forewarned, I am not fickle about revolutions and will keep paddling my canoe against the rising tide of caca even when mysterious dead fish kills are clogging up the flow.