I'm sitting at school, in a table for four, alone, typing with my Spanish textbook open. Maybe I look like I'm doing work. I am in a way. People around me sit eating, talking, with their computers open, sharing notes, experiences, lunch.
I sat down to eat my leftovers from yesterday. Half of a sub with ham, roast beef, shredded lettuce, tomatoes, raw shredded onions, and a deliciously spicy dijon mustard/mayo combo. Yum. Afterwards, I opened my book to read a section from a book named Como agua para chocolate. We only have a page of two from the story so I went online to read a quick summary. It's a little messed up, but a lot of stories are. Many stories are overly dramatic and unrealistic. If they weren't, there's a chance they'd resemble our own lives a little too much, boring and predictable. Don't get me wrong, I have a fondness for predictable. It's very useful with small children, but hard to break out of. As I've noted, I'm interested in writing more often; however, I'm finding it very challenging to actually make time to do it, which I've been told (through author quotes on Twitter) means I don't want to do it badly enough. Maybe I don't. It's hard to say.
When I was younger, I was very interested in drawing. I used to do sketches constantly: little cartoons (Smiley Plant was a favorite of mine--Link pending) and faces. I learned early on that faces (and other drawings) make use of shadows to illustrate depth and create a three dimensional effect. I never believed myself that talented. It seemed natural and easy to me to darken parts of the face that sit further back and keep light on the parts that stick out more, such as the tip of the nose, the brow, and the chin. When considering the work of others, I know I'm not that talented. I possess no more ability than the common street artist. I lack vision. My sketches are little more than doodles with no thought and no heart. True artists look at a blank sketchpad and see a drawing within. They are merely exposing it and bringing it to light. They apply emotion, texture, and content. Artists bring their images to life.
The same can be said of painting. I love to paint. There is almost nothing sweeter and more satisfying than sweeping a brush of oil paint across a canvas. Blending two colors to create a third. You learn that shadows are not about using more hatches like pen or more lead with pencil, but choosing different colors and making the ones you do not already have. You can show light and dark with red and green. Painting is an expression of your soul when used liberally. That stuff I can do. Paintings of buildings and wild cats, sunny days changing to rain, birds scattering to the sky--that I cannot do. Again, I lack the ability to visualize how I want to picture to turn out. Even when I have an idea, I lack the technique to bring it to life.
Writing presents a different challenge. I have a story to tell. I know how to tell it. I've been encouraged by a published writer (local friend) that I have ability. I cannot seem to turn up the heat enough to ignite my passion. I enjoy writing, hearing the rhythm of the words in my mind as I read them soundlessly, putting them down digitally. Why can't I just suck it up and do it? Why, indeed.
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