August 26, 2009 – Wore myself out yesterday. I’m dopey and my feet and back hurt.
 Spent four hours at the county fair, did interviews, had a reading in Cambridge, N.Y. Slept right through my breakfast with my friend Drew at the Pine Grove Diner.
  Somebody asked me why I was selling the farm. I said I make stories. Stories are my life, really, and I tell them in all kinds of forms and forums – photos, books, the blog, readings, children’s books, workshops. Almost everything is a story to me, and my head is filled with them, more than I can possibly get out.
  Each of Maria’s quilt is a story to me. I went into her studio yesterday, and found her on the floor cutting up a wedding dress, one her friend gave her. The marriage did not work out and her friend told her to cut up the dress.
  Maria – this is one of the many reasons I love her – immediately saw a wedding quilt in her head, and pieces of the dress are all over the studio barn. This afternoon or tomorrow they will evolve into a quilt, a work of art but also the story of a love gone bad.
  Maria is telling her story. So is her friend. I guess, in a way, that’s the point of art. And stories.