For four years, I had a friend at work who wrote sad and beautiful stories and taught himself to draw. We talked about the creative life and he began to ask me why I no longer wrote or painted as I had done when I was younger. He used to catch me out looking at beautiful textiles and quilts on the work computer and ask me when I would start making a quilt instead of just dreaming about it. No quilt eventuated. I am a procrastinator. After a while, whenever we met he would greet me with a cheeky grin and ask: “Where’s my quilt?”
A year ago this week my friend died. He was 31 years old.
So here I am, writing this blog about doing, not dreaming. I think it would make him smile.