I was 8 years old when Dad's job was transferred from Windsor, CT to Stamford, about 1-1/2 hour away from our then current home. So on weekends, Mom and Dad, with me in tow, would look at houses closer to Dad's job. Sometimes 4 or 5 a day. The parade of different spaces, shapes, sizes, colors, styles, compositions stimulated my imagination. When we'd arrive home later that night I'd take out a sheet of paper, my crayons and markers, and draw them -- my first architectural plans.

Later, I learned that there was a profession named "Architect". So that's what I wanted to be. And that's what I became.

Throughout my training to become an Architect, I bumped into art over and over again. So hand-in-hand with a developing sense of design, I developed a sense of color and composition creating watercolors, pastel drawings, paintings and intaglio prints. The journey through all this took me beyond Connecticut to Notre Dame, Indiana; Rome, Italy; Dallas, Texas; and Albuquerque, New Mexico, where I even had a little success, living as an artist full-time for awhile. 

Throughout this I became a champion for all sorts of Creativity. I could design anything. I could draw or paint anything. And encourage anyone to do whatever creative feats they might. Yet, my own confidence in writing never developed and lagged behind. 

Fast forward to today.  I work in an architecture firm (yay!). And I live in a situation in which I care for an elderly parent. It's been difficult lately to find the time and space to do art on a regular basis. But I'm finding lately that writing here on my keyboard or in my journal is the perfect creative venue. It makes the most sense. It's the easiest medium to drop in a flash to take care of an emergency. Because rather than the paint drying out, the cursor is still there flashing when I get back 5 minutes, 10, 20 or an hour later.

So maybe I'll realize another childhood dream of writing murder mysteries a la "Agatha Christie" after all?