What happens when you commit to painting—or to any form of creating—every day for a year?
You exist in the world differently.
You see objects and shapes and colors in ways you’ve never seen before.
You make things you would have never imagined making.
You read differently.
You misread. (It actually said Saunders.)
You think differently about writing. (Words by Milan Kundera.)
You think about art differently.
You sleep differently.
You dream differently.
Wake up differently.
You see the whole world differently.
The river outside your window.
You see light. Have you ever really seen light?
You make ugly messes that you want to throw away.
You improve them dramatically with power lines.
You learn new things.
You paint your idol. (Clarice Lispector!)
You paint your lover. On a really big canvas.
You even sell a painting to a museum!
You also get rejected.
But you press on! You even paint late at night after a long drive when you are so tired.
You join Instagram, use hashtags without irony, and participate in things called Inktober.
Then you’re all, “Now it’s November: NaNoWriMo! I’ll start a graphic novel about my great-grandmother’s life as a flax-spinner in Northern Ireland!”
You find other people’s notes in library books.
You find beauty in vacant buildings.
You find your spirit animal.
And you find yourself.
But you are no longer the same.