It used to hang on a window in my office overlooking the snowy backyard. I completed my first novel, a Middle Grade titled Blurb about a librarian who loves books but who never reads because he is afraid he won't be able to finish the books in one sitting. His friend teaches him about chapters in books, and that he can stop there without feeling overwhelmed. "They are tiny books within the stories," she explains. It is, to our adult eyes, obvious but, possessing an MLS myself, I have seen how intimidating chapter books can be to newer readers.
But, I digress...
Stained glass making never happened, but writing did; and I still own the few pieces I collected during that time. Now, I piece together colorful words to paint pictures of worlds made of glass and fire. They come alive for me on paper in much the same way I imagine Tiffany's imagination breathed life magic into glass.
If I devoted enough time to drawing, stained glass, knitting, or even gardening, I'm sure I could become at least proficient in them. I would never be a Michelangelo or a Tiffany, but that's not what matters. What matters is what medium calls to me in a way that sparks the magic of life. For most of my life, for reasons unidentified and mysterious even to me--it can't be a familial love of reading, because I'm the only writer in a family full of crafters--I have created with words on paper. Ink is in my blood.
Before I leave off, I want to share a doodle-like poem I scribbled while in grad school.
Sheets of color,
in breath and flame.
Shards of pane,
with lead and iron.
upon a world of glass and fire.
Not another Kate!
I am a word alchemist, angel apologist--no, really, I'm very sorry about them--and urban fantasist. I reside in all possible worlds.