“This painting from 1968, captures the moment I fell in love with reading and writing: a nine-year-old girl sits on the foredeck of a sailboat. Cream colored sails are rolled up along the mast, water glistens blue behind me. My legs are curled underneath to one side, one arm bent at the elbow with a hand disappearing in a curtain of long reddish hair, holding my chin. I’m looking down at my lap where the other hand holds an open book.
In that moment, I was transported to Devonshire, England, where there rose, ever dark against the evening sky, the long, gloomy curve of the moor, broken by the jagged and sinister hills. I found myself walking home in the dark, heart pounding with the knowledge that an escaped convict was on the loose, when there rose suddenly out of the vast gloom of the moor, that strange cry, a rising howl, a sad moan. . . followed by a terrible scream, a yell of horror and anguish.
My eyes popped out and I looked up. Waves sloshed and swayed the boat. I gasped, breathing in the salty sea: I was safe.”
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