A couple of weeks ago, a dear friend posted on Facebook an image of a photo print she’d purchased from me years ago, along with a caption saying she still considered the image one of the things in her living space that gives her joy. I was flattered beyond words. And I thought of her post this past week as Nancy and I finally got around to putting art on our walls.
We’ve only done the living room and dining room (and our respective offices), but already the house feels more like a home. I am itching to put up more. This week, perhaps.
I am fortunate to have learned photography as a younger man and to have captured a good number of display-worthy photos over the years. And so we have framed images from many of our travels that are, or will be, on our walls — pictures from Australia and New Zealand, from Ireland and the American Southwest, from our former home in Tennessee and from a memorable trip to New Mexico a few years back. I’m currently deciding which photos from more recent journeys I should print and frame next.
I am even more fortunate to be the younger brother of James Coe, a remarkably talented wildlife and landscape painter. Jim’s art is all over our house; in the rooms we’ve decorated so far we’ve hung nine of his paintings and prints. I expect there will be more before long. [By the way, you can read more about Jim and see images of his art at his website.]
What else have I got? Several years back, while attending a World Fantasy Convention, I bought signed prints of Martin Springett’s marvelous cover art for Guy Gavriel Kay’s Fionavar Tapestry. Springett himself was selling the art and he was a charming and effective salesman! Some twenty years ago, while living in our little town in Tennessee, we became friends with Stephen Alvarez and his family. Stephen is an amazing freelance nature photographer, whose work has appeared in National Geographic, Time, the New York Times, and other high profile publications. He and his wife, April, also happen to be fantasy readers, so we arranged a trade: a complete signed, hardcover set of the Winds of the Forelands books in exchange for a print of a gorgeous night sky photo taken in Arizona. I think I got the better deal.
We have a few nice pieces of art that once belonged to my parents. We have photos we purchased just outside of Zion National Park — photos of the park taken by photographer David J. West, with whom we chatted for a time one memorable morning. I have in my office a tiny framed pressed bronze image of a Celtic owl, which I love. And I have yet another signed photo print, this one by renowned nature photographer Larry Ulrich. It was a gift from my siblings for my 50th birthday. And we have a signed print from a Native American artist in the Pacific Northwest that we bought while on our honeymoon in Victoria, British Columbia. This print has hung over the mantel in every home Nancy and I have shared. It was the first piece we put up in the new house.
Of course, we have tons of smaller photos all around the house, of our darling daughters, of our parents and siblings, of friends, of our wedding.
And I suppose the point of all of this is that every one of these pieces of art, every single thing that I have taken care to center on a wall and hang at the right height and fiddle with until it hangs straight (only to have Nancy come into the room and adjust it so that it really hangs straight) brings me joy. They remind me of places we’ve seen that stole our breath and seared themselves into our memories. They remind me of experiences we cherish and people we love.
Each time we put up something new, it invariably puts a smile on my face.
Take a look around your home, and let the memories stirred by the things you’ve put on your walls bring a smile. And if you care to, share a favorite or two on the Facebook feed for this post.
Have a great week.
And in part, this is the fault of professionals like me, who talk about our work habits and, perhaps, create unrealistic expectations that writers with less experience then apply to themselves. I write full time. I demand of myself that I write 2,000 words per day. I am asked often how long it takes me to write a book, and the honest answer is that it takes me about three months, which is pretty quick, I know. Writers who are at the outsets of their careers should not necessarily expect to do the same.
We’ll begin with the assumption that the book we’re writing will come in at around 100,000 words, which is the approximate length of most of the Thieftaker books, the Chalice War books, and the Fearsson books. Epic fantasies tend to be somewhat longer; YAs tend to be shorter. But 100K is a good middle ground.
Feeling more ambitious? Say we can write for ninety minutes each weekday, and can manage to average 500 words a day, while taking our weekends off to recharge. Well, now we’re writing 2,500 words per week, and that novel will be done in less than nine months. Willing to write on weekends, too? Now we’re down to seven months.
What about the rest of my life? What’s next in other realms?
80,000 people. This year, in an attempt to control the crowd just a little, I believe attendance at the con has been capped at 65,000. Yeah, that’s still pretty big.
I also know that what has been a quiet year thus far is about to get very, very busy. Starting in May, we (
I have two other projects underway as well. A nonfiction thing that I am not ready to discuss in detail, and, at long last, the editing of the Winds of the Forelands books for re-release in late 2023 or early 2024. And I have another writing project — a collaborative undertaking — that I also cannot describe in detail, simply because I am not the organizing force behind the project, so it is not mine to reveal. But I am excited about it.