Limits of my Art

I sometimes wish I was a painter or sculptor, that I had learned how to make pictures, because sometimes I see images in my head so clearly, so viscerally, images I don’t have the skill to communicate. I know, deep down, that no story I can tell will do them justice. While at work today, perhaps the most horrific image of a ghost I’ve ever conceived of came into my mind, and I have been racking my brains trying to come up with a story. I can’t even seem to get the character down. Is she—it’s a she, by the way—I don’t even know how to ask the question: Good or bad? Unjustly killed or a suicide or…? And who sees her? I don’t know these things. I just see her, see what she does, and I know it would make a great ghost story if I could find the story to go with it.