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And I paint, getting involved in every project possible, including the Williamsburg community wall competition that I won and went viral.
And I dress up and go out and smile and dance and meet new people because Becky says that networking is more important than talent. I say luck is more important than networking. But without talent, I wouldn’t have ended up in New York. So, thank you, talent and Becky and possibly luck.
New York is wonderful!
And so, so, so exhausting.
There are days when I feel like a hamster in a wheel. Like I’m running with no direction, and everyone is passing me, but I can’t keep up. So I run harder. I love it and hate it and can’t live without it.
I turn on the French Kiwi Juice on my speaker for the mood. With all the art supplies, my room is crowded. The floor is covered with plastic so I don’t ruin the parquet. Paint jars and tubes are everywhere. I don’t have a place to store them or the money to rent a studio or even buy proper storage furniture.
Pushkin lies down by my bed and watches me.
“That’s what I do, little man,” I tell him as I pick up brushes and set them into a jar with water on the small table next to a big easel with a blank canvas.
This is my domain—colors, textures, sounds. I get lost in this for hours. Pushkin is the audience I never had, and he breaks the solitude that usually comes with my work.
Writing is the opposite. It’s all words and a tangle of thoughts, but once you get the story going, you interact with your characters, talk to them, and suddenly the world you created becomes very real, making a home in your head with all its dramas and shenanigans.
Art is external.
Writing is internal.
It’s the balance I so often need in my life.
So while the music trickles through the speakers and Pushkin watches, I set the blank canvas and a sketch next to it and start mapping out the new painting with a pencil.
By evening, the rough sketch of the gothic portrait is ready. It’s a big piece, and the clients already sent their photos.
But I need a break. Switching activities is the cure for burnout, and, boy, do I have a handful.
The next on my to-do list is brainstorming a new romantic novel.
I lie on my bed with the open laptop in front of me, trying to come up with a decent idea, but my brain hits a dry spell. I’ve been staring at the ceiling for half an hour when I hear the click of the key in the front door, and Pushkin rises to his feet, growling.
I have the instant urge to run out of my room and strike up a conversation with Jace. My mood goes from sulky to cheerful in seconds, and I catch myself smiling, listening to the footsteps in the living room.
There’s a handsome guy in my house. A salesman. Is he?
They say one’s eyes are a window to one’s soul. Jace’s eyes are floor to ceiling, wide open, and genuinely reflect all of his emotions. They are in his careful glances at me. And his overly fascinated gaze when he thinks I’m not looking. And the warmth when he smiles. The playfulness when he makes faces at Pushkin—I caught that a couple of times.
Jace is a perfect—
Oh…
I hold on to the vague thought that flickers in the back of my mind.
Oh, oh, oh…
I try to catch it by the tail before it gets away.
Yes!
A smile splits my face.
I have it!
Right here!
