Self Portrait

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Dee, she said, you are too old to start something new. I had not confided in my friend that at the age of sixty-two I had decided to become a ballerina. I had confided that writing and drawing had rested far too long within me. A bear, stretching from his slumber in search of the sweetest berry. Persistent, my friend. Dee, do you know how many writers and illustrators there are in New York City alone? The chances of success are equal to the chances of the sky turning green. And I thought, the sky can turn green? How lovely.