Daybreak. Beautiful sun, light gleaming from cut grass in the garden. A whirlwind of niece and nephew, packing and chasing.

Email - a question?

Email, hesitant response.

Interminal pause.

Email, enthusiastic acceptance.

Email, embarrassed joy.

So I’ve, erm, well, I’ve sold a painting. Which is great, but feels a bit weird. Like I can’t quite believe it’s actually happened. Okay, hold on, take it slow…

I mean properly sold one, to someone who doesn’t know me, and is prepared to pay for the painting because they like it, and can see it in their house. The experience is good - it’s affirming, and puts what I’m trying to do in context. But I still can’t shake the nagging doubt that there is a sting. You know, have I missed something? Will this turn out to be my greatest work?

But then this probably says more about me than it does about the work, my inability to believe in the value of what I’ve done, which at a moment like this does seem rather churlish. I find my inability to give over to this kind of success in the moment really frustrating. Grrrrr! (And that’s how eloquent I am about the subject too.) The painting was up on display, and the buyer really liked it, they took my details and contacted me. Which is how it was supposed to work - it’s just, well, I was never sure it would, so I hadn’t really prepared myself for this to come off.

Then there’s the other part of me - the part that says, well yeah, but it’s just one, and I shouldn’t get too carried away, and to take it easy. Which is good advice, easy to take, and yet again raises the bar for a definition of success even further - great.

The truth is I am chuffed, I’m just scared that if I say that out loud the feeling will go away, prove to be mirage, a false dawn.

And that doesn’t just scare me, it terrifies me.