Why I am Not Painting Right Now — Thoughts on Writing and Expat Life

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Today is March 10; it is 9:30 in the morning, on a Sunday. An hour ago, I decided I would write a book. A novel, a memoir, a collection of stories? I have no idea; everything is on the table.

This isn’t exactly a new idea. I remember thinking that I would write a book when I was 19 or 20. Now, in my late 50s and living abroad, the collection of…