Talking to myself.

I've never been very good at keeping a diary. My childhood attempts would begin with great enthusiasm in January and tended to peter out  about March leaving only a few entries for posterity. Poor old Posterity faced  with my listings of what I ate for lunch or my fondness for Starsky and Hutch, written on pages decorated with red felt pen hearts.

These days I'm determined to keep a notebook of ideas and inspirations but the old reticence is still there. I don't like the blank pages and the expectation of what should be put on them.  I talked to Miss Frugality, who knows about this sort of thing and she gave me some sage advice which I can paraphrase as - just get on with it and don't worry too much about a page being rubbish as you can always cover up that bit.

I have been filling the empty spaces with daftness and thought and along with the slowly ( very slowly ) improving drawings, conversations are springing up. Little chats between me and what is happening on the page.  Limbs? I ask myself when drawing a prototype felt cat. Make it less like Hitler is the comment next to a pig who doesn't look like a pig. A page with the design for my headscarf has the note, tadpoles are too weird.

I like talking to myself.