Paint Stuff.
Walls mostly. I'm not talented by any stretch. I'm no great artist like some of my fellow bordello mates. I tried to paint dragons on my fireplace once. Looked like a giant had sneezed on it instead. ~ew~ I can freehand some scroll work and know to wipe a stencil after each application. There's a mandala I'm toying with in a sketchbook that I think I want to paint on an exterior wall of my house...or polka dots. I'd love to pull off a dragon reading a book, but see the aforementioned last disaster with dragons.
I aspire to be a Rehab Rhonda. I have scads of those upcycled sites bookmarked. Sadly, I don't have a carpenter's workshop in my garage. I want to. I fantasize about miter saws, routers of the non-wifi sort, cordless nailers, and jigs that may or may not involve kilts. Oh, and small-order lumber delivery services. I tried to fit a 2x4 in my Bug once, the drive home was like a Benny Hill skit.
What I like about painting is the tangible end result. Visual. Visible. Hard to miss. Short-term effort. Long-term enjoyability. All the things that writing a novel isn't.
Okay, okay, you're right. Paperbacks are tangible.
Painting is both my mental break and my well of creative renewal. By the time I'm done with the paint project, I'm eager to return to the WiP.
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