I remember standing, 3 feet tall, chin perched on the table. My grandmother paces, watching her students draw and paint. I listen to her gently guide, gently suggest.
My grandmother taught me to draw, and my grandfather taught me about stories. Between the two of them I find myself threaded into a legacy that stretches through the long journey that brought me to the here and now.
I've made an album. Music, my own. Glitches and guitars and synthesizers. I've thrown a bowl made of clay, watched it dry and warp and shift. I watched the kiln master bring it out of the glaze fire, clothed in glass.
Now I'm writing. Maybe it's bad, maybe it's good. Maybe it's just someplace in between. In February of 2015 I received my first acceptance from a professional market. That's a start.