My first book

A few people know I’m working on something that most of the time I’m not quite ready to call a book. Everyone who knows that about me (and probably anyone who’s every written a book), knows that I┬ávacillate between excitement and despair about writing my first book at an age that seems to be advancing far more quickly than the number of pages I write. I get morose at times when I regret not writing more, earlier in life. So imagine my joy when my mother sent me, in the mail, preciously wrapped in well-used red tissue paper, my first book.

It’s called “The Art Book.”

This is a book about art that isn’t done in pen or pencil.

I really hated to draw back then. Still do. Odd that nearly two decades before stumbling upon the Jesus story, despite my family’s best efforts to protect me from such things, I figured out some way to fashion a cross. Hmm.

“Another is tye-dye”

Tie-dye was big then, publication date circa 1967. We lived in Greenwich Village across the street from a designer tie-dye shop that custom-dyed clothes out of silk, satin, and velvet. Remember the purple tie-dye pantsuit Janis Joplin wore on the Dick Cavett show? (Of course you do, right?) I helped stir it around in a boiling pot of purple dye when I was about nine.

Paper Flowers

I could’ve made paper flowers out of tissue paper all day long if anyone would let me.

And photographs….Don’t you wish you had a shirt like that?

What about your first book? Have you written it yet? Do tell.