I am a serial hobbyist. I take on a hobby full-speed ahead until I completely burn out on it and give it up completely. I did it with sewing, tatting, crocheting. When I took up aromatherapy, no one could leave the house without a jar of bath salts. I truly enjoyed ceramics – from greenware to painting to glaze – until I figured out how much more “efficient” it would be if I went through the process like an assembly line. Dotting the eyes on a dozen Santas in succession was much quicker, but it did kind of take the fun out of it.

When a friend of mine in Metairie invited me to go with her to Corks N Canvas, I jumped at the chance! I had always wanted to learn how to paint, and here we could drink wine during our lessons. What could be better? Let’s just say my first effort – a New Orleans-style shotgun house – left quite a bit to be desired. Naturally I blamed the wine! So I tried it again but drank less. Somehow that painting turned out even worse. I returned again and again – sometimes with a bottle, sometimes without – eventually obtaining paints, canvases, and an easel so I could try on my own; but for some reason, no matter how clearly I could see something in my mind, I could never translate it onto the canvas.

Andalucía, Spain

A few years ago, I spent five days at a retreat centre nestled in the hills of Andalucía, surrounded by olive trees and vineyards as far as the eye could see. As a family of Anglophiles, we seem to attract Brits, so naturally the centre was owned and operated by a Welshman and two ladies from London. They cooked all of our meals, too, so the only opportunity I had to eat Spanish food was in the airport. We did go to a rather rustic, uh, pub near the village one night, where I had the chance to meet some of the locals as well as utilize my extensive Spanish vocabulary:  Una cerveza, por favor. ¿Dónde es el baño? (In the interest of full disclosure, the first two times I asked for the bathroom, I actually spoke in Italian.)

All the other guests were British as well. Two women were from Liverpool (although we talked about the Beatles and not Miss Mary King) and a third from Brighton. She and I did talk a little about Lydia and Wickham and the Prince Regent, but we mainly discussed the possibility of her age-appropriate son marrying my daughter, who says she would only consider marriage if it were to a man from the UK so she could live there.

I never found out where the only male guest of the retreat centre came from because, as I am wont to do, I offended him immediately upon our meeting. After we introduced ourselves, he asked for my date of birth and launched into a lengthy explanation about the value of numerology and how he could learn all about me just by my birth date. I admitted that I did not believe in numerology because calendars were a tool created by men for convenience, and dates had even changed after the switch to the Gregorian calendar from the Julian calendar, although some countries still use the latter. His scowl quickly transformed into an expression of horror, and without another word, he skulked up to his room. Another guest told me I should not have said that because the young man has Asperger’s, and I probably blew his mind. Well, how was I supposed to know? He wasn’t wearing a sign or anything. To look at me, one would never know that I…well, never mind.

The next morning, I saw him walking into the main building with a huge bowl full of figs. I absolutely love figs, probably going back to my childhood and my grandmother’s fig preserves, which to this day are the best I ever had. During my

These figs escaped because I couldn’t reach them.

canning phase, I attempted to replicate her process (she only cut the figs in half – so much better for a biscuit!) but they just weren’t the same. As soon as I learned two large and plentiful fig trees stood near the top of the hill across the road from the retreat centre, I was ready to climb.

The climb itself took over half an hour, but what a reward! The branches were heavily laden with plump, ripe, juicy, sweet figs; and I ate them right off the trees. As I picked them, I only wished I had a larger bowl so I could bring more down the hill, although I ate quite a few on my return walk. I wished so badly that I could bring some of them home with me, but as fruit cannot be brought into the US, I decided to arrange some of them and take a photo with the intention, of course, of painting it.

Large fig trees on the right and set back on the left

After disappointing myself once again with my fig still life, I gave up painting. I considered attempting a landscape of the hills I had seen in Spain, and I started on an idea for a penguin costume party, but then I figured, “Who am I kidding? I’m not an artist. I will never be able to project my vision onto the canvas. Time to go back to writing.”

My final painting. That’s a bowl of almonds in the back.

Fortunately, I am better at painting my visions with words than a brush. Whenever I have a scene to write, I close my eyes and meditate until I can see it playing in my head like a film.  While most of what I write comes from my imagination, there are a few exceptions. For example, the dog Amadeus in Pulse and Prejudice is based on my own dog; but he is the most beautiful dog in the world, and I figured I owed it to him after my pitiful portrait of him.

Then there’s the scene in All My Tomorrows where a character eats figs she picks from a huge tree in a vineyard. Obviously, that fig tree came from real life as well, although I found mine in Spain instead of Napa. I was finally able to share the experience with others through art – the page perhaps always meant to be my canvas, my clay, my ball of yarn. Best of all, dotting the Is in this particular “hobby” doesn’t diminish the fun at all.

Are there any other serial hobbyists out there? How did you find the right hobby for you?

In other news:  I am thrilled and excited to be meeting so many of my fellow Austen Authors at the Decatur Book Festival this weekend! I am also looking forward to meeting fellow readers as well! I have been a reader far longer than an author, and this will be only my second book signing. For more information on my novels as well as the festival itself, click here. I hope to see you there!

Colette Saucier

Colette is the best-selling author of 'Pulse and Prejudice,' the paranormal adaptation of the Jane Austen classic, which tells the story of Mr. Darcy - vampire; as well as the contemporary novel 'All My Tomorrows,' voted Top 10 Romance Novel of 2012, for which she was honoured to be named Austenprose's "Debut Author of the Year."

• Mail
|
• Web
|
• Twitter
|
• Facebook
|
• More Posts