Yes, the holiday wreath in this photo IS made out of cactus. Spineless Prickly Pear Cactus, to be exact. With . . . sort of . . . Red African Pods hanging from a funky raffia bow. Topped with Prickly Pear Fruit Buds, artfully accented with red craft paint. All fastened to a straw frame by florist picks . . . and some leftover wooden shish-kebob skewers from my kitchen junk drawer.
You guessed it: I made the wreath. I CRAFTED it.
Why?
Good question.
The simple answer is that I saw a similar one at the Liberty Bar in San Antonio. A century-old establishment skewed at an alarming Pisa-esque angle. Which means that if you set your purse on the floor it could keep on slidin' til it comes to rest under the spurs of that half snockered cowboy at the end of the bar. The menu, however, is damned-straight fabulous.
You guessed it: I made the wreath. I CRAFTED it.
Why?
Good question.
The simple answer is that I saw a similar one at the Liberty Bar in San Antonio. A century-old establishment skewed at an alarming Pisa-esque angle. Which means that if you set your purse on the floor it could keep on slidin' til it comes to rest under the spurs of that half snockered cowboy at the end of the bar. The menu, however, is damned-straight fabulous.
Anyway, I saw the wreath (hanging decidedly off-plumb) at the Liberty Bar, and told myself--heck yeah--I could make one. Because:
I had the cactus growing in my back yard.
I had all those wooden shish-kebob thingies gathering dust in my kitchen drawer.
And (most significantly) I had the luxury of TIME.
Because (and here’s the real answer to the question “why”):
I’m between writing contracts.
Mai Tai to Murder has been successfully launched, and my new series proposal (an inspirational romance) is under serious consideration by several publishing houses. Very exciting. But, still, it’s strange for an author to be in a limbo-land without deadlines. Though I love the heady sense of anticipation and new options (cue the West Side Story showtune, "Something's Coming" . . .) I find that my natural creative juices need to be satisfied. I MUST be CRAFTING something. Anything (obviously). I've always been that way. And over the years, this itchy need has spawned a vast number of strange things: felt fabric mice dressed in Camelot costumes, a gingerbread re-creation of my hospital emergency department (complete with Santa OD'd on brownies) , Edward Scissorhand-like topiaries, cookies shaped into smiling armadillos, that great carrot cake for a quarterhorse's 16th birthday party . . . . okay, I’ll stop before I scare the bejeebers out of you.
I had the cactus growing in my back yard.
I had all those wooden shish-kebob thingies gathering dust in my kitchen drawer.
And (most significantly) I had the luxury of TIME.
Because (and here’s the real answer to the question “why”):
I’m between writing contracts.
Mai Tai to Murder has been successfully launched, and my new series proposal (an inspirational romance) is under serious consideration by several publishing houses. Very exciting. But, still, it’s strange for an author to be in a limbo-land without deadlines. Though I love the heady sense of anticipation and new options (cue the West Side Story showtune, "Something's Coming" . . .) I find that my natural creative juices need to be satisfied. I MUST be CRAFTING something. Anything (obviously). I've always been that way. And over the years, this itchy need has spawned a vast number of strange things: felt fabric mice dressed in Camelot costumes, a gingerbread re-creation of my hospital emergency department (complete with Santa OD'd on brownies) , Edward Scissorhand-like topiaries, cookies shaped into smiling armadillos, that great carrot cake for a quarterhorse's 16th birthday party . . . . okay, I’ll stop before I scare the bejeebers out of you.
However, my sense is that most writers have always had the drive to create, and long before their crafting involved words there were likely other venues. Paint, clay, wood, feathers, blowtorches and solder, or . . . ?
So, question: If you couldn’t write, what other CRAFT would call to you? Or, before this writing gig snared you, where have you found creative outlets? Any lamentable "masterpieces"?
And, oh yeah, is it just me, or do my cactus buds look a LOT like pimento-stuffed green olives?
So, question: If you couldn’t write, what other CRAFT would call to you? Or, before this writing gig snared you, where have you found creative outlets? Any lamentable "masterpieces"?
And, oh yeah, is it just me, or do my cactus buds look a LOT like pimento-stuffed green olives?
Ack, I thought so.
Well then . . . LoneStar Martinis for everyone! Happy holidays, Inkers!
