I have always been the type of person that's really good at envisioning something artistic but completely and utterly lacks the talent to do anything with it. The only "art" I've ever been good at is sculpting. Perhaps because it allows me to work in three dimensions.
Crafts galore - give me some paper mache or a glue gun and I can create masterpieces. But give me paper and a crayon and I'll end up drawing a sun, a green hill, a blurry tree, and some flowers.
I've tried drawing from the right side of the brain (or is the the left) and I can't do that either. My perspective is screwy.
I'm the same with music. I hear wonders in my head. Sometimes I can even sing a beautiful and haunting melody for some song I've invented for the children. But ask me to pick out a tune on a piano and I'll always revert to Ode to Joy.
I think that's why I like writing. No translation needed, really. What I picture and hear in my head can be instantly converted using words.
Perhaps if I had immersed myself in painting classes and art gallery trips as a child instead of Enid Blyton, LM Montgomery, Roald Dahl and CS Lewis I'd be a better artist. Perhaps instead of learning the vocabularly and nuance of language I would have learned the technique and art of drawing. But if wishes were fishes and all that . . .
So, there it is. Blame Enid Blyton for being so interesting I couldn't pull myself away from Five Go To Mystery Moor long enough to attend art classes. That is precisely why my blog will never be a beauty and a wonder.
As long as it doesn't make you want to puke, I'm happy.
And please note, I am trying to fix this darn comment system. I think I'm done playing with the look for now - if I could just get that black side border off the header I'd be happy (ps: if you want to view my code and tell me where I went wrong playing with it, please do). But in the meanwhile, if you've something