She supported herself with her art, working street fairs and sometimes commissions. It was the only way she could support her daughter on her own. Occasionally she would find a Sugar Daddy to augment her income the price she had to pay to survive. It helped that she was a beautiful blond with lots of personality. Given the limited financial resources she would scrimp to pay for life drawing classes. Her skills were remarkable and I think of her every time I look at a drawing I bought from her. But once she married a very wealthy man and didn’t have to work, she never picked up a drawing pencil again. Never. Like the creative faucet was completely turned off.
He was a startling handsome young man with a desperate longing to write about his experiences, some of them quite difficult. On the self publication of his first book middle aged female readers fell madly in love with him, reacting to him like a rock star wherever he went. At book signings throngs of giggling girls would surround him desperate to have a photo taken with him. Realizing now his effect on the female buying public he began to crank out a short series of romantic novels. He was a marketing whiz and knew all the social media tricks to gain a sizable following. If I saw him on Face Book there were photographs of him always with a v necked t-shirt on to expose his well-developed upper torso while holding one of his books. He encouraged every reader to write positive review on all his books and even offered prizes.
He made enough money to buy his ideal house on the shores of the Sound, a wood house, outfitted by a professional interior decorator. He was set. He then stopped writing. Period. No more books. Why should he need to write? The sales of the novels in other languages are keeping him financially set. No need to create.
I checked his Face Book recently. He is has lost his youthful looks. He looks like a spent man. No more stories will come from him, what wasted talent.