If my writing sucks, God forbid my ever finding that out. I personally don’t think about it being good or bad (I think it’s better without criticism), I just enjoy it. I have never found such mercy and understanding for my usually inexplicable feelings and thoughts as I have in this medium.

I can sing and play a few instruments, and have written a couple of good songs that would, however, be just as enjoyable in freestanding prose if not more so. Meaning my musical ability is of a mechanical and precision-focused nature. I’ve spent more time tuning my guitar than I have thinking up songs.

I’ve also dabbled in the visual arts. I chalk that one up to the visual learner inside of me, which lets me understand things like intricate mathematical or physics equations if, and only if, I can imagine them visually or have a drawn diagram. I was good at geometry.
I have the same technical knack for drawing that I have for music, only it’s a lot weaker. I have this sketchbook with an eye-pleasing salmon pink fabric cover (it’s so ugly, it’s beautiful) that I doodled in the first five pages of, each page more hastily drawn in than the last. The first page has a penciled hodgepodge of very surreal, dreamlike objects including a hand that I worked on for awhile with detailing I was supposed to have picked up in the art class I never took. I was proud of that hand, and sometimes I let the sketchbook fall open to that page while I pretended to do something else. I wanted someone to see and be impressed without having to show them and fish for a compliment. I felt so immature for doing that, though, and Lord knows I would have looked down on someone else if they had done the same. I can’t paint because I don’t understand it, though Bob Ross has helped me understand a few general principles. God rest his amiable, public television soul.

Something that always really annoyed me about some painters was that when I would make a guess as to what their painting was about (or what the objects in the picture were, at least), they’d say something to the effect of, “If you think it’s that, then sure, it is that.” I’m thinking, okay, this is your painting coming from your feelings and imagination, and no matter what I guess, it’s always going to be what you intended. Even if the artist themselves cannot explain in words (hence the use of a different medium), it’s still what it is. It’s not a freaking inkblot test.

Photography has been a lot different, though. Once the functions of the camera are figured out, that’s as far as the technical stuff goes for me. I enjoy letting my eyes find images I want to keep seeing. From the moment I am drawn in by a subject to the split second I snap it, it’s like my heart holds on to it and then I can breathe again when it’s over. It’s usually a letdown to look at the camera display and know that it will never see exactly what you saw, though the most incredible pictures out there let us know that people are still trying.

I synopsized my trials through fine art not to be boring, but as a verbal processing to understand what a contrast there is between things I can perform for the satisfaction of being able to do them, and the things I may or may not be able to do well but still find an outlet of self-expression in. Last summer, I was obsessed with the idea of self-expression. I decided in my heart that few things were more important than being able to effectively harness feelings into a medium to be able to understand them and validate oneself through it. Even through swear words or inappropriate topics, which I still believe should be tailored to the consideration of others and purity of one’s mind. But I listened to old Alanis Morissette songs whenever my emotional angst got unbearable, and to say that soul-bearing lyrics like that speaking for me was relieving would be an underestimation. Combine screaming at the top of your lungs, smoking a cigarette, being reprieved of a terrible crime, and never having to pay taxes again, and you’d get pretty close. That just gives a picture of just how intense those emotions get.

I’m glad I’ve happened upon writing as my vehicle of choice for self-expression. When I say happened upon, I mean before the womb, before the dawn of time even. It’s in there, genetically. I can feel it, and to be fulfilling at least one thing I was made for feels pretty good. I don’t mean to sound like I think I’m going to write a best seller, in fact I don’t even care about accomplishment in this case, which is refreshing. My sister writes pretty good poetry herself, so I know I’m not the odd one out. My dad liked photography, though I don’t have the foggiest idea as to how good he was, except that he did some work for his yearbook when he was in high school. To me that kind of ascertains my affinity towards it, and Lord knows I look for any opportunity to identify with my dad that I can. Recently, my uncle (his half-brother) looked us up. He was not part of my dad’s family growing up so I never knew him, but he has been planning to come visit sometime in the next year, giving me yet another opportunity. So, that’s cool.