I just tried drawing the head of a mountain goat. And failed miserably.
Yet I have this dream that I am artistic. That if I could just get my hands on a brush or my fingers into some clay then I could create all of the wonderful images I hold in my mind. I have the urge to create, to be able to create, to throw paint on a wall in some immediately fascinating design, to mold clay into a delicate and full-bodied piece. Forgetting, maybe, the minute and detailed strokes and the finger aching pinches that it takes to create a masterpiece.
Dr. Simons once said of a student, in his delightfully sarcastic tone, “She arose from the ocean, a goddess!”
That’s why I like collaging. I can piece together already polished and complete images. I can copy and meld, instead of copywrite and mold.
It takes a lot more energy to create.
I’d rather rise out of the ocean, a goddess. I want to be there already. I don’t want to bother with the journey.
See, I have the dreams of painting and modeling clay because it seems like it would be so much easier than writing.
Key word: easier.
I have some good ideas, I have some great images, but I want the easy way out. I can hardly think of how to put it into words, hardly stand the thought of all the painstaking labor it would take. But oh, give me a paintbrush (and some skill) and I could have it for you in a minute!
I’m intimidated by the work. By the diligence that I know I should, but don’t, have. By the sheer energy, not necessarily of the body, but of the mind – that can churn the bubbling, frothy inspirations until they become something firm; that can shovel through all the heavy yet dead weighted character sketches, brief pithy dialogue and feeling until I have a clear pathway of a storyline that can bring me from beginning to end.
And although I can blame my laziness on many things, it isn’t something new.
Even when I was younger and liked writing, I never saw myself becoming a novel writer. I couldn’t imagine myself writing all the way through something like that. I would read inspiring quotes and want to become a “quote writer” – become famous for short statements, instead of realizing that each of the quotes I was inspired by had pages and years of work and thought behind it.
Poetry worked for me. Maybe a story or two. And I really enjoyed essays. I even thought for a while that I wanted to become famous for blog-writing.
It’s hard work for me to even think of how to conclude this. And I mourn the sad-state of the student body that I see every day? Am I much different? Much different from the mind-set that googles rather than researches, that plagiarizes rather than writes, that writes disguised notes on their arms rather than learns?
I’d sure like to think so.
I mean, a goddess shouldn’t have to work for something, right?