Through all the years that I believed I was a writer, I struggled to put words on paper. In my more senior years it is apparent that I am not a writer. I am a tiny potato and I realise that I cannot ‘do the thing’. I do not have the determination or the drive a writer needs. Small bloggy pieces are about my limit.
Many years ago, I believed I was an artist but it turns out that was misguided thinking, too. There are many things I can do but drawing, painting and writing are not among them. I have a minor talent but it is not enough. The many nudes I drew and painted at Art School were destroyed (burnt) by an over-zealous family member for reasons I’ve never fathomed. I am easily disillusioned, defeated even, and take such physical criticism to mean that my work is worthless. I’m very good at giving up – cease making an effort; admitting defeat!
What I would like to be able to do is to sing in tune.