Back when I was a semi-professional oil painter, I used to paint very small portraits of authors. It was always a great joy to me to have a painting on my easel, en plein air, and to have a fellow lover of literature walk up to eagerly identify the writer. I painted them as commercially viable studies, since I still needed my share of the rent at the end of the month and I was fortunate enough to be able to fund all of my needs and bills at the time, such as they were, through painting.

Many of the finest works sold. Some, however, which were near and dear to my heart, or which simply never found their ‘love at first sight’ buyer along the road of life, continue to haunt my walls. Some of my favorites are these novelist portraits.

I should think that this woman needs…