Once again I have started Inktober and again I have slipped. I’m not sure why… I seem to be able to write under prompts but when it comes to drawing I find that more often I want to go my own way.
I love to write, but then I love to draw.
Except I write with the scramble that is inside my head. That mess of emotions and thoughts let me write because they are my voice. My drawing quietens the scramble. It makes the emotions become still and the thoughts to slow. Drawing is my way of becoming more normal. Writing is almost like I am stoking the lion and really hoping that I won’t get bitten.
I think that is the difference. When I write I smile, laugh, hate, cry and fly… When I draw I simply disappear. I can never remember how I got there, just that I have. I’ll sit back from a drawing and look at it in astonishment and wonder how on earth I managed it. I’ll sit back from a piece of writing and love it, but I’ll remember every sentence, word and letter.
I know I do.
Maybe I ought to just accept that when I write I am present but the drawing is something private. Consequently I can’t follow a set of prompts because I draw what I want and if I bend it then it isn’t enjoyable.
Writing on the other hand loves to be bent in different and awkward shapes and twists. I love thinking outside the box… or rather trowing the box away and simply doing a mental dance.