Dear, Elizabeth Melwood

         I have not been sleeping well. Perhaps, my head is too far up in the clouds that it is impractical for me to sleep. Maybe, it's the curse of the creative mind. Or at least a fault of mine. During these nights in which the sandman eludes me, I think of the oddest thoughts. None are of interest but I do quite often end up questioning my sanity afterwards. The reason being I have started looking forward to these meaningless ordeals. The back and forth of whether I am living in reality or a fantasy realm of my own design is an adventure of itself.

One moment I am laying in bed thinking of what chores to accomplish the following morning. Then, the next moment I have propelled myself into the life of a young seamstress, who works for a much older, stern widower. Her employer introduces his son to her and a romance soon blooms between her and the widower's son. The names of the characters change but their faces; how do I explain?  It is as if they are sitting in front of me yet, I can not put their descriptions into writing. Nor, can I paint them.

This is why I think myself slightly mad. Thinking of people who do not exist yet, are real. I wish to become an author but, if I can not describe my characters then I fear I should look for a different avenue. Perhaps, tailoring? Being a tailor would be quite a complimentary career path for my several felines that I plan to obtain in the future. Now it sounds as if my aspiration is to become a spinster. Author? Spinster? Could I choose a path that sounds anymore achievable? Although, if I choose anything different, it would be a waste of my creativity.

I could be a painter but I can not paint portraits nor landscapes. I state "I'm done" yet, the painting is always incomplete. Do I enjoy contradicting myself? I think that I do. I lack the skills to paint my imagination. However, as I mentioned earlier, my mind is always in the clouds. One can not paint a ship if one can not see the ship because of the thickness of the fog. I pray for that day in which I can paint as clearly as the great Michelangelo. Maybe, I am overthinking this as I always do.

Practice is what I need but patience is what I lack. I find myself wanting to disregard the time in between the past and future. I see others' works and assume that I can not do better. How can I?  May I add that I do not lack the time nor, do I lack the materials. But, my enemies seem to be motivation and sleep deprivation. An endless battle that I choose to surrender to rather than fight. I do not know what I hope to accomplish by waving my white flag. Nor do I know what I hope to accomplish by telling you these things.

I do not wish to be told "Practice makes perfect." I have been told this plenty of times. I also do not wish to be told that my work is good. For good is not great. And I want to be the greatest or at least one of the greatest. I can not be the greatest in one of the world's most subjective professions. That I know is an unachievable dream yet, you know me well enough that I put dreams ahead of knowledge.

Sincerely Your Friend, Margaret Hatcher