It Always Comes Back To Art

A second excerpt from my first draft.

I’ve heard your second book is the hardest to write. While this might not be my second book overall, it’s my second as an adult, and, well… the saying is proving true for me.

But, I did it, friends. I hit 60K. The feeling of accomplishing this milestone feels like a breath of fresh air, like a reminder that I can do this. I’ve done it before, and now I’ve done it again; more on that in a future post.

Ahead, I’m sharing a second passage from my multiple-POV, women’s contemporary fiction project, as promised. A bit of context: Shannon is a stay-at-home mom of two who finds herself wanting to pursue the passion she put on the back burner when she became a mother: art. In the following paragraphs, she opens up to her friends, Evelyn and Rosemary, about why she decided to put her art on hold for so many years and the brainstorm she and her husband, Elliot, had about what could be next for the creative.

Without further ado, excerpt two. (Thank you so much for reading.)

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“It always comes back to art,” I say as I layer a piece of cheese on a cracker and top it with a slice of salami. “Creative expression is the ultimate way to self-soothe.”

“What about you, Shannon?” Rosemary asks, reaching for a bunch of grapes. She picks one off, then another, and continues with a full mouth. “What are you using art to heal from?”

I snort. “Art.”

Rosemary swallows. Evelyn stares. “What do you mean?”

I pick up my glass, but I don’t drink. Instead, I swirl the ice cubes and the last few sips around the bottom. “I’ve been with Elliot since college. On our first date, I asked him why he wanted to go into the medical field. He said, ‘Everyone deserves a fighting chance, and I’m going to be the one to fight for them.’ He’s a wonderful man and an incredible doctor. If you’re sick, you want Elliot on your team to fight for you.

“Any free minute he wasn’t studying or with me - moments that were, usually, simultaneous - he was at a hospital or an office, not caring what he was being paid, if he was being paid at all. He’d come back to the dorms physically exhausted, but mentally exhilarated. The sparkle in his eye would be so bright, the bags underneath didn’t seem so dark. He’d talk a mile a minute through yawning fits, telling me the stories of the different patients he’d encountered.

“Meanwhile, I’d spend days on a single painting. Once, it took nearly an hour and a half to decide which colors I should use to replicate my skin tone on paper for a self-portrait. I can still feel the headache I got from staring at shades of white that were too similar for too long.” I pause, take a sip.

“Elliot nearly collapsed on my bed that night, giving a detailed play-by-play of a five-year-old who’d tripped and split their eyebrow on the sharp corner of a JCPenney display. He swore he saw brain tissue before the boy was taken into the room, but didn’t get to see the sewing back together of the brow because he was asked to assist some of the nurses changing patients’ bedpans.

“Art means everything to me, but if Elliot’s work calls, he can’t set it aside. I can put my paintbrush down. So, when I got pregnant our senior year, we both got our degrees, but it made the most sense for Elliot to continue his education and go on to medical school while I took care of Lily. By the time Landon came along, art was just a hobby I pursued in stolen moments. But I’ve been… itching for change. For more, more art, more creating.”

“So you took up pottery.”

I half nod.“My sister’s idea. I enjoy pottery. It’s fun to learn a new medium, and I’ve loved meeting and befriending you two.”

“But?” Rosemary asks.

“It’s like one of those wooden back scratchers. You know, the ones that look like spiders, but with four legs instead of eight, and instead of tiny paws, they have balls for feet? It rolls over the itch, putting just enough pressure on the problem area to offer some relief, but you know you’ll be itchy in five minutes.”

“You have to find the thing that scratches the itch,” Rosemary says knowingly.

“Any ideas?” Evelyn asks.

“Elliot thinks I should teach. Well, first, he thinks I should go back to school and get my teaching degree. Then he thinks I should be an art teacher.”

“What do you think?”

“I never really gave much thought to teaching. But then the other night, I gave my family a pseudo-lesson on pottery using nothing but Play-Doh and our imaginations. I loved every second of it, and pottery isn’t even my specialty. And I always love organizing crafts and projects for my kids.”

“Well, I think it’s a fabulous idea,” Rosemary says, standing up and wobbling her empty glass in front of her. “Round two?”

Evelyn and I stand to follow her, but before we duck into the house, Evelyn says, “I do, too. Think about it.”