I just posted another essay on the Essays about Life page. Last summer I decided to paint some chairs up at our cabin. My father is a nationally-known watercolorist and artist, but I did not get one single shred of his ability to deal with paint. It’s crazy, but when I’m painting a wall or something, no matter how careful I am, paint ends up everywhere! Sometimes even where I intend it to be. Once I was painting a set at the theater, and somehow paint got inside my purse which was not exactly nearby.
So trust me – every word of this essay is true. How, you might wonder, could I end up with the leg of the stool I was sitting on in the paint can? I really can’t tell you, but it happened. When I bent down, why did my hair end up in the paint can? I have no idea, but it did. So I wrote about it.
It was fun. The painting AND the writing.