I call myself a writer, but I sometimes wonder if I’m also, in small ways, an artist. I cannot draw or paint to save my life, but I occasionally make useful contributions to Robbi’s work, and not just on the conceptual level. I can usually tell what’s working and what isn’t and when my suggestions make Robbi’s illustration better, I feel as if I’m helping to shape an image, even if my hand never touches the paper.
Does that make me an artist, or at least an honorary one? I’m occasionally tempted to think so, but, for better or for worse, every time I log into Facebook I am forcefully reminded by the ads in the right hand column that I do not have what it takes to be an artist, and never, ever will.
For example, I do not have a really huge beard.
Further, my glasses are too small and lack an artsy tint.
Finally, I’m not sufficiently quirky and in tune with animals that butterflies will land on my nose, rendering me cross-eyed and artistic.
I suppose I’ll have to find contentment in being just a writer. And since I cannot apply for artist grants, I might as well just buy these pants:
I have it on good authority that I need them.
