I’ve told this story before, and I’m sure I’ll tell this story again. That’s life, isn’t it!

If you guys have been hanging around with me for the last year, then you know that in November my debut novel, Teal Paisley Tights, releases. (pinch me) And yes, it’s so weird! And thrilling! Scary! Fun! ALL THE FEELINGS.

Okay, so Jadyn Simon, heroine of Teal Paisley Tights, longs to be a watercolorist. Read the back cover copy here for Teal Paisley Tights.

I would never ever call myself an artist. Not in the true sense of artist, someone who works with mediums like paints or clay. Oh, no. But, I recognize that I have a bit of flair for the artistic. It’s a knack, not a training.

Anyway, when I was growing up, my grandparents would come visit (as grandparents do). Their giant motor home would rumble down our dead end street, and my siblings and I would pile out of the house to act as guiding beacons for the arduous parking journey of our driveway. Okay, actually, I’m pretty sure that my mom didn’t let us near the motor home while my grandfather tried to park it.

Twas a beast.

In retirement, my grandparents had taken up traveling together. My grandmother picked up a paintbrush while my grandfather opted for books. And when they visited, my grandmother taught us children art.

Believe it or not, I was not an easy child to teach. I can be, a bit, head-strong.

One particular morning, or was it afternoon, my grandmother set us up outside in the front yard for our painting lesson. We were using acrylic (if you paint, you know this is not an easy one). I got it into my head that I wanted to paint a stunnnnnning sunrise. The full spectrum of colors across the sky of canvas.

With pencil, I set the limits of the land and sky on the white. And then with a paintbrush, I dabbed color on the sky.

My grandmother hovered over me, but I shoved my shoulder over my paper, hiding my masterpiece from her view. I would do this by myself.

She moved to my younger siblings who listened to her advice, and she left me alone.

As the paint globbed onto the canvas and refused to meet my mind’s sunrise expectation, frustration boiled in my chest. Why did the paint not bend to my will? Why couldn’t I get it to be like the picture in my head?

I want to say that as this moment I calmly raised my hand and beckoned my grandmother’s input. But, I know me. And I think it’s more likely that I flipped the table and ran away. And cried. Angry, crocodile tears.

I’m not entirely sure when I came back to that art class. But I was tear-weary and the paint had dried on my paper. I asked forgiveness of my grandmother and settled into my seat again. What I had of my sunrise…ugh, let’s just know it was awful. Awful, awful, awful.

My grandmother leaned over the scene with me.

And I knew it was ruined. I knew she would tell me that if I had only listened to her this wouldn’t have happened. I knew that she was about to throw up her hands and tell me to just give up and move on. I just knew the paper should be crumpled and tossed away, to be pressed from memory.

She lifted my awful sunrise and pivoted it, until what should have been sky was ground. Multi-colored, rigid rocks, jutting from the bottom of the page.

I can’t be certain what my grandmother said exactly (it’s been a few years), but I imagine it was something like, “What if this was ocean instead?”

And with gentle guidance, my grandmother showed me bit by bit how to take my ruined sunrise and create a foggy seascape with waves crashing against wild, ragged rocks.

That painting won a blue ribbon in the county fair that year.

And a painting that could have been crushed into a trash bin became one of my heartbeat moments–a scene with a million takeaways, some big and some small.

I mean, hello, I could have learned earlier to accept instruction…or ask for help instead of cry. Or learn that we don’t have to do everything alone. Don’t give up. Think outside of the box. Etcetera.

For me, I see a lot of grace in this moment. My grandmother had been burned by my temper many times, and yet, instead of picking me a part weakness by weakness (no one would have faulted her right then), she offered her knowledge and viewpoint to my stuck-in-the-sky piece by flipping it. What kindness!

My grandmother probably had no idea how pivotal that art lesson would be for me, and I can’t tell her anymore (that makes me feel a bit weepy).

And so, when you read Teal Paisley Tights, check the dedication. And remember this story.