Working in your studio, writing a novel or a song, arranging a show, outlining your next article, planning your next presentation, getting a gallery meeting, detailing a business plan, making your unique mask, most of this time you are by yourself, yes?
It’s chilly in my New England writing studio this afternoon, April 10, in the Year of covid-19.
Grey skies, intermittent snowflake-hail showers, tree limbs still bare and bent by the wind. Perhaps it’s time to rev up my fake, gas-fed wood stove, minus the quintessential smell of oak drying in the basket as wood smoke snaked out of the cast-iron door no matter how quickly I tried to shut it.