Day 346. Wishful Thinking

I’ve wanted to live in a loft since I was about eleven or twelve years old.  I don’t know where I got the idea.  A real artist’s loft.  Not a modern take on a loft.  And it’s always alluded me.  I’m still wanting.  And waiting.  Not that I haven’t looked.

It’s not something I dwell on.  Certainly don’t think about it everyday.  But since reading Tuesday’s WordPress Daily Prompt, I can’t get it out of my mind:  “You win a contest to build your dream home.  Draft the plans.”

Yeah, what I’m talking about is in an old warehouse, or factory.  Twenty-foot ceilings, inside.  Minimum.  Brick walls.  A wall or two of big windows, preferably rounded at the top.  Concrete floors.  Or wide, scuffed 

Day 249. Go Figure

Pete Armetta had an interesting blog post yesterday.  He wrote about the effort he puts into his work, how not everything he writes starts off well, and how he constantly hones a piece, sometimes for months at a time.  I really admire his work ethic and the pride he takes in what he does.

But something else he said really got me thinking.  He talked about how, sometimes, people seem to like and appreciate the pieces of his work he likes the least, passing over the work he’s the most proud of.  And how confounding that can be.

It made me think of my own experiences.

Truth be told, I think it happens to everyone.  I think it happens to all writers at some time in their career.  To all artists and photographers and choreographers and architects and chefs.  To anyone who creates.  But what I’m trying to figure out, to understand, is why.

My father manufactured children’s hats.  And to this day I can hear him, talking with my mother over dinner, expressing surprise each time they would show the collection to retailers.  Inevitably the hats everyone thought would