I'm feeling a little stumped on my old blog at present, I suppose you can tell due to the severe lack of updating. Believe me it's not that I don't want to, it's a can't.
I have an issue that when I'm really, really happy I lose what little skill I have. It's happened for years and has lead me to believe that I really should be A "tortured artist." I'm not saying if you stuck thumb screws on me I'd give you tales that took you to the Highs and Lows of emotion, or that if I was dunked into scolding hot water I would produce images of heaven so real you could cry. What I am saying is If I was a little more unhappy I could at least draw and think of something to write.
I know, I know, I'm really ungrateful, yes. I accept that being happy is consolation ten fold for a creative block, but I ask myself....is it really? I mean when I'm old and grey I want to look back and say "this is my work", "this was my passion" and though the pages may turn yellow and the colours fade they will be as vivid in my mind as the day I gave birth to them, these children of my mind, piece after piece of my life, my love, my hate, my sanity, my insanity, all folded away in a portfolio somewhere waiting to be re-hydrated with memory.