Only Fooling Myself

A few years ago I got obsessed with making wall hangings. I collected driftwood, shells, and pebbles on adventures with Eliza and Sasso. I organized everything into bins. I bought a stack of wooden frames. On rainy days and the occasional weekend, I’d spread everything out in the office-slash-guest room and make a few pieces. I sold some. One even made it into a local art show.

I started thinking the lack of workspace was holding me back. If I just had a dedicated studio, I could really go for it.

So I rented one. And never went.

Well, almost never. When I did, I spent most of the time next door at the Italian café, sipping cappuccinos.

Turns out, having a dedicated space made it feel like an obligation. And then it became something to avoid.

This is a recurring theme.

Right now I’m writing this pieces in that same office-slash-guest room where I used to make the wall hangings. There’s a big desk here, but my feet are up on the file cabinet and the laptop’s where it belongs: on my lap.

Keeping it casual allows me to trick myself into doing the work by pretending it’s not work at all. I’m only fooling myself, but here I am. Well, maybe I’m fooling Eliza, too. I’m pretty sure she thinks I’m just dubbing.