I decided to paint white over some of the paintings I started yesterday. I worked on my new manuscript all morning, the process of organizing my chapters, the practice of writing scenes from memory, the insomnia the night before followed by last nights deep rest inspired me to go farther in my quest for what’s just enough line, color, texture, detail, information. I looked in the mirror at myself. I saw how unattractive the Christmas apron I got on sale on Amazon was. On sale because it’s March now. I told myself that’s not what your body really looks like. I grabbed pastels to draw with, a grey one, a gold one, an iridescent. I hesitated, stage fright to draw sometimes. Drawing and writing are closely connected. I’ve felt self-conscious or held back in my writing and drawing during periods of repression in my life. Periods of fear to express myself, I was afraid of what I might reveal to myself, or what I might reveal to someone else. Those times my studio is filled with dark blue or Jenkins green. All dark. All ruined. All my paint gone. Those are trippy times. Today was a different experience. Lines didn’t disappear, forms and feelings remained visible. Today was Friday. I have three days until another possible studio day.