A year and eleven months have passed since the death of my husband. It still hurts the same way it did on the day it happened. The other night I saw him in my dream and I was so happy that he was back, but then I realized he was never going to come back and that hurt.
What hurts most is to see all his artwork all over the living room. Paintings that he didn’t have the chance to exhibit. His last unfinished one still standing on his easel in a corner. And I remember a long time ago when I first introduced him to my family and my uncle said, “You know artists don’t have money, don’t you.”
How can I not know when I had dreams of my own that I had to put aside for a while and work to earn a living? We had no internet at that time, nor much contact with the outside world. We had never heard of globalization or anything else for that matter. My only contact with the outside world was through books and magazines. And I remember reading:
“Most beginners think that writing is a quick ticket to some kind of celebrity status, to broads and talk shows. Those with that shallow motivation can forget it. Here’s how it goes. Take a person 25 years old. If that person has not read a minimum of three books a week since he was 10 years old, or 2,340 books – comic books not counted – and if he or she is not willing to commit one million words to paper – ten medium long novels – without much hope of even selling one word, in the process of learning this trade, then forger it. And if he or she can be discouraged by anyone in this world from continuing to write, write – write, then forget it.” John D. MacDonald
“I wish I could tell you that in our great land of occasional prosperity, the vital writer can always find an immediate market. But I cannot tell you that. I cannot say anything different from what I would have said in Grub Street 200 years ago. The man who has a real ideal of great writing, and has to live by it, will have to tighten up his belt and move into a garret or perhaps into a tent in the wilderness. But I can promise you the old, enduring satisfaction of being able to keep your own self-respect and integrity of spirit; also the affection of the few readers who will be gathered to you little by little.” Upton Sinclair
I wish I could tell you things are different from when you left my darling, things concerning your paintings or my writings. But I can’t. Maybe someday! I haven’t lost hope, at least not yet.
May you rest in peace.