My cousin, Bernadette, (left) and me at my house. I think this was after Christmas 1985. Notice my red watch! That was new for Christmas. I want to say it was a Swatch, but I can’t be certain.

I loved receiving crafty, drawing-type of things at Christmas. Here’s what Bernadette and I were working on:

I loved this with all my heart.

I spent hours with that kit, hours and hours. I would draw the rooms and then spend time coloring them in different schemes. See the load of colored pencils on the table in the first picture? I loved doing anything involving coloring. I wasn’t very good at drawing things myself, but I liked coloring in shapes and scenes already provided to me.

I find this to be a good metaphor for my writing. I’m not a fiction writer; I find it extremely difficult to make up anything. I wouldn’t say I ever had a good imagination. Just like I could not draw something from out of the blue, I could not make up a story from nothing. But give me facts, a ready-made story, or an outline that I could color, and I could do something with that and make it my own.

Another thing I spent hours with:

I’m so glad that there’s a vintage set floating around in the family yet. I play Fashion Plates with my niece, Eve, and I think I’m more excited than she is to bust them out!

Eve playing with the Fashion Plates earlier this year.

Even though I can’t draw, or paint, or sculpt, or do anything remotely visually artistic, I’ve had a lifelong love affair with art. I’ve started to jot down several memories that relate to art in my life and who knows? I may have an essay collection brewing.

I spent much, much more time as a kid coloring, drawing, tracing, and making things than I ever did writing. I am not one of those writers who can say, “I was always writing stories” or “I always wanted to be a writer when I grew up.” I don’t remember doing much writing on my own, though when it was an assignment for school I enjoyed it.

Will someone get me a coloring book for Christmas!?