Class was a little better today.  Mom had to talk me out of making a huge mistake last night.  One of my classmates tried to pick a debate with me and I was very tempted to rise to the argument.  I was comparing apples to apples, like any good statistician does and he criticizes my explanation because I did not account for an orange.

I could have tried to point out the fallacy of his idea, but it would have yielded no fruit.  On top of it, he was arrogant enough to compare my writing to his own.  I was blown away.  I have collegiate English professors who have been waiting almost two decades for me to publish because they want a copy of my first novel and this guy thinks he sees the seeds of his own writing reflected in my words?!  Wow!  Really?

Needless to say, I was quite upset.  I never used to get this upset over things like this.  This is something new to me.  I used to take something like that as if it were water off a duck's back.

I guess it is good that I am starting feel creative again.  Some of the energy is starting to flow again.  I am starting to be able to write again too.  I am not finding my own inspiration within myself again yet, but sometimes I can connect with some images which tell stories.

The process is not easy to describe because it is not in every image for me.  Some tell stories and some do not right now.  Once upon a time it was not this way.  There was a time when every image or object had its own tale to tell and only I, as the storyteller, could had the key to unlocking its secrets.

I can remember sitting in creative writing class in college when the professor, Brett, Dr. Singer, told everyone to take an object out of their purse, pocket, backpack, or wallet.  They had to tell the class what the object was and then hand it to the person to their right.

I was sitting next to a professional photographer who went my the initial E and the object he handed me was a nude of his girlfriend from the waist up.

Everyone snickered and giggled at the object I was given to write about...and Brett intentionally saved my writing to be read and discussed last.

I could have drug his girlfriend through the mud.  I suppose he would have deserved it for the callous way he treated her, tossing her picture as a trivial object to be written about in a room full of strangers, but that is not my style.  I cannot say that I saw any real artistic beauty in the posing of the shot.  It was a straight forward pose with her hair down, arms at her side.  She was wearing nothing but a gold cross around her neck.  A strange icon for a nude.  Now I wonder if it was not E's attempt at mocking organized religion and its values, but then all I did was modestly cover her up to her face and focus on the task at hand.

It should have been hard, right?  But it wasn't.  It was gloriously easy.  Instead of a photograph she became an unfinished sketch of a nude in the studio of a renaissance artist, long forgotten over time.  At the end of my reading, Brett thanked me for the way I gracefully handled what others would have made such a mockery of.  E, surprisingly, also thanked me for "not dragging her through the mud."  In the end, he must have realized he really did care for her and appreciated that I chose to show her as an object of beauty rather than one of unbridled lust and passion.

Isn't life funny?  These days my inspiration to write is coming back, but it is quite limited.

I would like to shoot more pictures.  Not the pictures of crafts I have been posting, but real pictures.  Like the ones I used take.  Like Janalee's bridals and engagement pictures, my countless shots of Hawaii, Grand Tetons, Jackson Hole, the Snake river...my family.  Things that really matter to me.

I should get to bed.  I'm tired and I have an early morning ahead of me followed by yet another doctor's appointment.  I wonder if my body will ever heal completely from this last injury.  I really just want my life back.