Last evening, my husband invited me to drive to Barrie with him while he went to get some car parts. He loves browsing in the car parts store. I love browsing in the art supply shop across the street. I thought about it and realized if I went, I'd probably just buy more art stuff or books. And I already have lots.

So here's the thing. I feel vaguely guilty that I have all this wonderful art stuff: sketchbooks, and pencils, instruction books and beautiful examples, and I haven't moved from the phase of "being inspired to draw" to "drawing every day".

I don't want to be one of those people who collect tools. You know the kind - they collect all kinds of tools - not so that they can do the things they have said they will, but so that they can avoid doing them. "I just need that special air-stapler with the dual pack whatchamacallit, and then I'll put that bookshelf together." Their garages fill with stuff and still not much gets done with them. When I look at the shelf of art books I wonder if I am getting like that.

I explained my guilt to a friend. She said, "You should see how many books I have about gardening." I didn't think she should feel guilty though, and neither did she. I could see her doing more gardening if her circumstances were a bit different. Maybe I should be just as generous with myself. I'm not a procrastinator - I think I'm just searching for a direction for creativity. That creative urge calls to me, even if it hasn't quite told me what it wants.

But why art books? Or for my friend, why gardening?

Sometimes I wonder if in an alternate reality, an alternate Janet paints or draws, or sculpts and is just as comfortable in that world as the Janet who is sitting here is comfortable in the world of language and writing. I have seen alternate realities, and alternate selves - clearly enough to know that they are just as real as this one. I wonder if that longing is a bleedthrough from another reality?

I don't know. But I do know that the books and pencils and brushes and colours are like gold for me as I decide what kinds of art appeal to me. So, next time Tom goes to Barrie to the auto parts store, maybe I'll go along. Perhaps rather than feeling guilty, I can trust myself to get whatever might feed that creativity and trust myself to stop when I have enough.

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