Someone dropped off a first edition at the studio for a repair quote. A real first edition, 1920s, beautiful cloth. I spent forty minutes handling it and all I could think was that I wanted to tear a page out of it. Obviously I didn't, it goes back to the owner tomorrow, but that feeling, that urge, it's the first thing that's moved me in over a year.

I've been stuck since last autumn. Every piece I start feels like a decision I can't make. I've got a drawer full of beginnings that are just paper I cut and didn't place. But looking at that book, something shifted. Knowing I couldn't touch it made me want to. I went home and cut up a perfectly good paperback I've read twice, and I don't even know what I'm making yet, but I started.

Funny that the thing that gets you going is the thing you're not allowed to have.