studio in the woods

I've just finished reading The Poet of Tolstoy Park by Sonny Brewer. It was given to me by my sister, Maureen, who is in a reading group and this was one of their choices. I was in a group once, but I didn't feel like I was carrying my weight: I'd rather listen to what others had to say, unless of course I felt very strongly about something. At first I felt awful about not contributing, but then I didn't care; after all, it's not about me. And in that frame of mind, this book echoes that feeling for me. It's the fictional story of Henry Stuart, (a real life character), who moves through life trying to "perfect the soul awarded him". A philosopher poet. There are lots of little tidbits to chew on at quiet times during the day, like "the more we think we know the more we think we matter. We become obsessed with our own cleverness...and with a constant desire to prove that we matter." If someone else read this book, I'm sure there'd be a different part that spoke to them. It was hard to hold in mind the fact that this was a work of fiction, and I finished it shaking my head in awe that Sonny Brewer (or anyone) could write something so real? Heavy? Poignant? Deep? I guess it's no different than creating a piece of art and people saying how did you do that?!
Speaking of art, that's my direction for today. That and finding a pair of red shoes to go with a new red skirt for a wedding this weekend. The art part will be easier, believe me.