Throughout history artists have used their artwork to depict their truth about religion, love, war, politics, and social injustice. I’ve even produced a few paintings myself inspired by the dark side of American politics and love, or . . . well, the loss of romantic love.

Casein (kay seen) commonly referred to as milk paint has a history as long as humankind. It is an ancient milk-based opaque paint that has been used by residents of prehistoric caves, Renaissance Old Masters, amazing contemporary artists like Nagel Klein, and so many others in between.

If you’ve ever had a writing coach, most likely you’ve heard the phrase kill your babies. This directive, as you’ll remember, means to edit out all phrases, sentences, lines of dialogue, character descriptions and/or chapters – ouch! – that do not – cannot to any extent – support your premise. Regardless of how brilliantly you wove the syntax or how deeply the sentiment moves your heart, the misfit must go!

Could! Not! Sleep!!! My mind darted from a looming project deadline, to strategizing new painting techniques, to mowing the backyard, to processing my most recent failed romance, to pulling garden weeds and back again! Recurring . . . a ferocious, chaotic cycle! The clock ticking toward 2:00 a.m. “I have got to get up early in the morning! Please help me sleep!” I wailed to the universe.

Way back when I was in high school as a mere seventeen-year-old, I hung a painting in my first art show. I’m pretty sure it wasn’t my first painting ever, but it was certainly among the first I was not ashamed to show in public.

In a previous iteration of my artistic self, I was often referred to by friends and colleagues as Word Nazi. I love words. I love everything about them – the sound, the geography, the meaning(s), the word parts, and parts of speech.

You know how an unexpected event in your normal, productive life can simply cut you off at the knees? And the months that follow that event are no longer normal or productive? And you slip from being even-tempered, easy-going, and smooth-sailing into a depressed, weepy blob of an anxious mess?

Just outside the entrance to my studio are two barn-swallow nests. Some people consider the prolific birds a nuisance. I do not. I anticipate the annual arrival of mom and pop barn swallow. It makes me happy to see them jet in to check out the accommodations.

Well, here I go again with morning pages. This time, though, a couple of friends are navigating Julia Cameron’s The Artist Way with me. I’m eager to see how this creativity exercise relates to visual arts.

When I started painting again, I made two pledges to myself. One: I would avoid using brushes unless absolutely necessary; and Two: I would never ever, ever, ever, ever, never ever leave raw canvas in a finished painting.

I had not painted in over 20 years when the desire to return to the canvas began warting me with fleeting notions in late spring of 2016. By the time I had enrolled in a class, the initial flirty thoughts had re-imagined themselves into a battering ram, pounding Get in a class – do it now!