Still Wish I Could Draw

I will never cease or waver in my respect for artistic talent. Especially my brother’s.

I can’t draw. Well. I can pick up a pencil between my index finger and thumb and press it to paper; but the problem is, it never looks like what I’m actually trying to draw. Either from a subject (inanimate or otherwise) or from my imagination. My brother’s the complete opposite.

I’ve seen him whip up sketches, cartoons, well-proportioned characters, doodads and figments in less than ten minutes. With a pen. He makes it happen. He just freaking rocks.

Why am I bringing this up? The thing is: You can have a favorite piece of art. You can take one look at a painting or a drawing or a mural or whathaveyou and be completely frozen by it. “Holy Shit. That’s damn good artwork there.” Maybe it’s a beautiful woman. Maybe it’s a breathtaking sunset. Maybe it’s just a damn bowl of fruit. Even a figure screaming on a bridge with an inverted pear for a head can catch your attention and keep it. With one glance.

Writers… we’re not so lucky. We have to hook you. Keep you reading long enough to get a flavor for what we do, at which point you decide if you like it. No one glance is going to snag your attention to a piece of writing unless it’s the Declaration of Independence or the Constitution.

A picture is worth a thousand words. And I can put together a thousand words for you; just give me fifteen minutes, if I’m hot.

I can’t draw. I can’t paint. I can’t doodle and have any desire to keep it when it’s done. I took art lessons. I was able to hone a bit of precision in it, but I’ve never drawn a single picture I’d call art.

And I never will.

That’s okay. At least I can recognize what I’m missin’ out on. Beats not being able to define it all, in my view.

The short of it is… my brother rocks. And I might not have taken up a keyboard if he didn’t.