To look at me, you wouldn't think Speed Demon, maybe Manatee. But my body shape has little to do with my internal timing. I have noted before on this blog about my propensity to paint without properly seeing. Art teachers told me to slow down and look before applying paint. I paint what I think I see, which is apparently wrong. Just recently two artist friends also told me to put on the brakes.
My mother had a stroke at 72. When I started painting fifteen years ago, I remember thinking I had a lot of lost ground to cover, to paint all I could before I stroked out. But, in truth, it started long before that.
My father often cautioned me not to rush to judgement.
I embrace delayed gratification daily but it is a struggle.
I walk with urgency, as if the fate of the nation rested on my ability to reach the corner.
I like to edit, cutting out chunks to get to a quicker resolution.
Wounded by my artist friends comments, I told another friend knows me well. She laughed, confirming that I rushed through everything. Not in my novels, I countered. Judy demurred, adding that sex scenes in my novels were terse. Over in less than a paragraph.
That reminded me of another friend who said, after reading my book, 'if sex was like that, I'd never have it again.'
