A woman who read my last manuscript said, “I had no idea you were an artist!” Over my vociferous objections, she reiterated, “You’re an artist.”
I am not an artist.
I am a writer. In my world, an artist paints or sculpts or creates beauty with his hands. Writing is a skill--perhaps a talent--but not an art. Not for me.
I can spin a tale and turn a phrase. At times I’m witty or hilarious (note: rare on the hilarity) I have a LOT to say and several manuscripts in the queue waiting to speak. Yes, I have thousands of notes, dozens of plot outlines and spreadsheets bulging with details, but I can’t really make art.
Last week, 2008 had many questions about the uterus. Here is what I drew:
On the left is a child’s body with a uterus, ovaries and fallopian tubes. On the right is a woman’s body (see the hips?) with a tiny baby that will grow and grow. Obviously the picture is not to scale.
I swear to you, that was my best effort. As I said: not an artist. I will stick to words.
I blog rarely, because I'm writing books. When I do blog, I focus on writing, friendship, family, and books. Because my family's best nicknames are private, I use their birth years for shorthand: