I am, it seems, accursed.
I love art. I love cartoons. I love music.
But while I can envisage any number of drawings, setting pen to paper inevitably results in an image as far removed from that in my mind as possible.
A wise (and highly gifted) fellow blogger once noted that good drawing comes with practice.
So I’m starting on the bottom rung with doodles.
The pen feels like an unknown instrument, awkward and uncooperative, taking one back to kindergarten and learning to write again.
As the lines refuse to comply, I once more fall back on words – borrowed, this time – to convey the message, courtesy of Gustave Flaubert:
Do not read, as children do, to amuse yourself, or like the ambitious, for the purpose of instruction.
No, read in order to live.