I’ve been painting the inside of our new-to-us camper. I mostly hate painting.

However. I love the results. That’s what I’m going for –  results.

I’ve covered up all the fake woodsy brown finish with creamy white paint. It looks clean and much bigger now. I just wish there was a way for me to paint or cook or collage that wasn’t such an immersion version of the sport.

My husband can go in and paint and emerge looking like he’s come from an appointment at the bank.

I, on the other hand will have paint on my glasses, my hair, up my arms and will have blobbed it on the floor (yes, I know about drop sheets, but are you really serious about taking that kind of extra time?)

Cooking is sort of the same thing…there’s flour dusted up the walls by the time the bread is in the oven. I think that I used to be a neater cook, but maybe not. Maybe I’m doing the delusional thing again. It just seems easier to muck around and feel that creativity thing and then scrub up after.

Ditto for the collages. I’ve now completely plastic-wrapped the table out in my studio so that the glue and paper and sparkles and bits of magazine clippings can fall with impunity.

I’ve decided that this must be what happens with my writing. I just need to realize that when I first start, there will be a big huge mess of words and tangled sentences.  Now I know that I can shape and order things later. And then after that initial tidying, I can mop up anything that ran over the sides. Hopefully there is something of worth left behind.

One must always have hope, right?