Tuesday, November 13, 2012

The Artist

The urge to sketch, to fill a page with pictures, to draw what she sees is almost irresistible. However, she never feels comfortable with what she sees when she draws. It never looks quite right, quite like it does in her head. But that doesn't stop the urge.

Instead, she writes. Words are easier. They are easier to control. She writes and she likes writing. It makes her happy. It comforts her in ways that she didn't realize she needed comforting.

But it doesn't stop the urge to draw.

She knows that with practice she might be able to draw what's in her head. She might be able to be satisfied with her art. That just because it doesn't start the way she wants it to doesn't mean that it won't become that if she practices. But every time she's tried, she suddenly can't think of what to draw. Or she can't find a reference for what she wants to draw.

Eventually, she decides that it doesn't matter if she can't find a reference. She should just start and draw what is in her head. Keep practicing until she gets it right. Keep adding detail and staying patient.

The day she showed off her art and got accolades, she is glad she never gave up.


So, yeah. Cathartic fiction seems to be where I'm at.
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