The makeshift office in my front room looks like a collector’s nightmare. Books have been thrown about, landing everywhere except the bookshelves. Musical instruments rest on top of an easel that hasn’t been used in forever. They all cover drawings and post-its and articles taped to the walls or lost to the clutter of the floor. The one bare spot in the entire office is the too-thin black console table that serves as my desk. That marked surface props up a lone sheet of translucent tracing paper.
Where to start?
First - I love the theme of self-drawings. Your newsletter already has a unique stamp to it.
Second - beautiful sentences: a flower bed worth of synthetic fertilizer
Third - concept. You know I am the choir. And you've just hit a high note. I think you are giving your children a love of actual land. Mud. And the ability to make magic and effect change by making things grow.