I've got to get something off my chest: lately I've been thinking about my own mortality and what will happen to all of my unsold art when I'm gone. Now, I'm not normally a morbid person, but recently, since I've been thinking about this little issue, it's made me think about how many years I might have left and how I'm spending them. I'm sure you've all seen the famous painting by Edvard Munch, "The Scream," and lately this is how I've felt in my mind. I feel like screaming because all I want to do is paint, and be successful at it. But here I sit, at my regular day job, bored and frustrated because I'd rather be home painting. As jobs go, my day job is not a bad job; I've been working in a political atmosphere for 24 years and involved, in a roundabout way, in the law-making process in Virginia, and I count myself lucky to have found such an interesting job. However, 24 years is starting to feel like 50, and the yearning to leave and do my own thing is so strong it hurts. And I don't even ask to make thousands of dollars (although that would be great!), just a nice living from painting to add to my retirement income. And I wonder: what will my daughter do with all my paintings? Certainly, I hope she keeps some that she really loves, and perhaps passes them down to her own children. My husband and I both had grandparents who painted and we have some of their paintings, and they are some of the most cherished possessions we own. So, I hope I didn't bore you with this little bit of candor; it's rare that I write about such a personal and emotional thing, but it was nice to get it out, to speak of my fears and dreams out loud. Do any of you have similar thoughts? What your legacy will be, and how you'll spend the time left to you? Some heavy food for thought. I promise I'll be more cheerful next time.