When I think about writing fiction, I am flooded with questions. So many, too many. The thought fills my veins with ice water. In the face of no limits, I want to retreat. An intelligent course of action, per the “I Ching,” but debilitating if unchecked. Too scared to dare the possibilities, I dog the truth; but it’s a truth siphoned through the embellishments and omissions of memory and time.

When I was interested in painting, I only wanted to paint concrete statues of the Blessed Virgin Mary, but Mary as I envisioned her. Since I grew up Presbyterian, I had a minimum of preconceived notions. I ordered nubby white molds by the dozens and happily painted them for years. Here’s an incomplete Gallery. If you’re interested, maybe next week I’ll write about what inspired me to start, and what’s behind some of the symbolism.

My husband bought me fancy paper and fine paints. You can paint Marys on paper, he coaxed. Just try. At the sight of a blank page, I froze. I wanted the restriction of the familiar concrete space. I didn’t want to paint; I wanted to paint Marys.

I’ve always rebelled against labels. Try to pin one and watch me bolt. As for my writing, call it what you like, fact or fiction. I just want to write it; and I hope you want to read it.