Found wire sculpture

We have more snow, and one person's disaster is another's Found Art. A moment of frustration? They finally got the damn thing on the wheel and then it broke. And their fingers were numb. And it was dark. And cold. And the snow was relentless. But isn't it beautiful? It looks like a dancer. 

My current project, inspired by Margie, involves approaching, for the thousand-teenth time, something like (shudder) a memoir/novel, given that memories are delusions most of the time and nothing is objectively true. I have started and stopped, always telling myself it doesn't matter, it isn't of any interest, nobody needs it, it's too late, it will serve no purpose, it's an egoic act, it's self-indulgent, it exposes too many people, people only read memoirs of famous people, and you're too damn old for this now. Some other voice says, "Come on, sweetie, just put something together and be done with it. Finish up and fulfill the old promise, even if nobody ever sees it but you."  

I have assembled and worked on 71 documents, all of which need more work. I'm scanning some photographs, and I have an introduction of 834 words that I might keep. I am a champion of nothing so much as self-doubt. I see why so many young people use the pronoun They. We make such a fuss, my self and I.