The familiar excitement makes my blood rush to my ears and causes my muscles to tense when the doors open. Some artists are heading in and out of the room. I see a blip of black tables already fully set up.
“Are you here for registration?” one of the volunteers dressed in all dark green clothing asks. There’s a badge around her neck with the event’s name and ‘volunteer’ written in festive font with a candy cane as a paintbrush and an artist’s color palette.
“Yes, I’m Cora Brown.” Cora Brown is my pseudonym.
Her honey eyes light up, and her jaw drops.
“Oh my gosh, I love your art so much.” She gently places her hand on my shoulder.
My heart flips, and a sting hits my eyes.
“Y-you do?” I ask, trying so hard to blink away the grateful tears.
“Yes. Every time you drop new art in your shop, I buy it all! Everyone loves you here.”
My mouth falls open.
“Everyone loves me here?” Surely, no one knows who I am. “What’s your name?”
“Willa,” she replies.
“Well, thank you, Willa, that means so much to me.”
Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Don’t cry.
She loves my art? My art has reached people all the way in Alaska?!
This is…I have no words. This means so much to me. I work so hard to complete unique art pieces, and people admire them?
“Here, I’ll help you register. The event starts in thirty minutes!” She extends her hand, guiding me to a booth outside. A line is already forming with other artists. Their faces are familiar. One of them spots me and waves me over. I recognize her from social media. I return the friendly grin and head toward her.
Ever since I’ve been here, my spark is reviving, and the urge to keep painting keeps growing.
I sitin my little corner with my art pieces, proud, grateful to be here, and my lips can’t stop curving optimistically. Lately, my sales have been doing well. When I get back home, I’m going to prioritize my creativity and remember my time here every day to motivate me to keep going, especially on the days when I feel like giving up.
Everything is set up. I sit down at my table and wait for my first meeting. Shania Twain’s music plays louder, and my pulse rockets with excitement.
“Hi, Cora! Congratulations!”
My eyes light up. A tall woman with short curly blonde hairholds a clipboard in one hand. She pats her fingers against the thighs of her light blue jeans.
“Hi. Thank you…for what exactly?” I ask while nervously tucking my hair behind my ear. I stand up from my chair to greet her properly. Her hands meet mine, and she shakes them.
“I’m so sorry.Hello.” She points to a name tag on their chest. “I’m Harper. Someone anonymously bought all of your art this morning when the phones were working; now they’re down. Typical timing before a storm rolls in.”
Wait. Someone bought all of my art…again?
“Really?” I breathe, fighting the genuine yet confused smile. I straighten my spine, glancing left and right. “Wow. Are you sure it was anonymous? I’d really like to meet them.” I grip the ends of my top.
“Yeah. They didn’t leave a name. Just said they wanted it all and made a huge offer for every single piece you shipped over here. Let me know how to transfer all the funds to your account. Your art is popular around here. Everyone is excited to see you!”
“Thank you. I, uh, am shocked,” I whisper, still trying to digest the news.
“You shouldn’t be. You’re amazing, Cora.” She takes out her cellphone and hastily dabs the screen. The room fills as a group of middle-aged women ambles over with giddy expressions. All of them hold a piece of my art from my shop in their hands.
I think I’m going to cry now.
After having my own husband and group of friends, who I considered my family at one point, degrade me and tell me I’ll never make it…it feels good.
