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feh. &c.
Woof.
Abbi was very proud of herself yesterday when she went off to childcare. She was wearing a skirt and proudly proclaimed "I look like a princess!"
It is said that every father likes the idea of his daughter being a princess. Not least, however, because of what this implies of his status.
I think I know what was the straw that drew the Dog onto me: Rolf Harris' Celebrity Portraits last night. It's wonderful to watch, but when I do, all I can think about, in between bouts of crippling envy as to the artists' skill, is that I used to draw. I used to paint. I haven't picked up a pencil in anger in over a decade, and when I try now, I am so disgusted with my attempts that I have to give up. And as for painting, I would love to paint. I just have to set up an easel and canvas. I just have to get an easel and canvas I just have to find a place to set up an easel and canvas i just have to find the time to work on an easel and canvas ijusthavetohave the skillto dosomethingworthwhile withaneasel andcanvasijusthavetohavetohaveto...
Ah fuckit.
I can't read Charles de Lint's Memories and Dreams either, for the same reason. It is full, from beginning to end, of descriptions of the joy of painting, of the way you can lose yourself in creation, and surround yourself with the results, and thus pass some of that joy on to others. I once had a taste of that. Ok, so I wasn't Leonardo, but I could dream. And now I fear that I will never feel that joy again.ยน
And on my friends list are so many brilliant writers. At least one for whom writing is his profession, and![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
tooticky who has won her way into a writing workshop. (That is, won as the prize for effort, rather than through dumb luck.) And me? I can whinge. I have written the occasional decent diatribe. But I just can't put the pieces together to write a story, whether short or long. I spend far too much time at the level of words and sentences to be able to stand back and look at plot or character. I don't even know where to begin.
And even if I did know, I don't have the time to practice. My time is chopped into little pieces, whatever the day, or time of day, or place. And flow is as important to art as it is to coding. You need that time to get the work into your head, and get your head around it before you can start to meaningfully add to what's there, and once you're in that flow then time ceases to have meaning. Flow is a precious state
... three hours later ...
You see, that's exactly what I'm talking about.
Right now I just want to hide under my desk and cry. Literally.
I used up today's quota of 'happyface' earlier this morning, and now I can't even bring myself to fake being cheerful.
I hate that dog.
[1] Of course, at the moment I find it hard to feel any joy whatsoever, but you get the idea.
Abbi was very proud of herself yesterday when she went off to childcare. She was wearing a skirt and proudly proclaimed "I look like a princess!"
It is said that every father likes the idea of his daughter being a princess. Not least, however, because of what this implies of his status.
I think I know what was the straw that drew the Dog onto me: Rolf Harris' Celebrity Portraits last night. It's wonderful to watch, but when I do, all I can think about, in between bouts of crippling envy as to the artists' skill, is that I used to draw. I used to paint. I haven't picked up a pencil in anger in over a decade, and when I try now, I am so disgusted with my attempts that I have to give up. And as for painting, I would love to paint. I just have to set up an easel and canvas. I just have to get an easel and canvas I just have to find a place to set up an easel and canvas i just have to find the time to work on an easel and canvas ijusthavetohave the skillto dosomethingworthwhile withaneasel andcanvasijusthavetohavetohaveto...
Ah fuckit.
I can't read Charles de Lint's Memories and Dreams either, for the same reason. It is full, from beginning to end, of descriptions of the joy of painting, of the way you can lose yourself in creation, and surround yourself with the results, and thus pass some of that joy on to others. I once had a taste of that. Ok, so I wasn't Leonardo, but I could dream. And now I fear that I will never feel that joy again.ยน
And on my friends list are so many brilliant writers. At least one for whom writing is his profession, and
tooticky who has won her way into a writing workshop. (That is, won as the prize for effort, rather than through dumb luck.) And me? I can whinge. I have written the occasional decent diatribe. But I just can't put the pieces together to write a story, whether short or long. I spend far too much time at the level of words and sentences to be able to stand back and look at plot or character. I don't even know where to begin.And even if I did know, I don't have the time to practice. My time is chopped into little pieces, whatever the day, or time of day, or place. And flow is as important to art as it is to coding. You need that time to get the work into your head, and get your head around it before you can start to meaningfully add to what's there, and once you're in that flow then time ceases to have meaning. Flow is a precious state
... three hours later ...
You see, that's exactly what I'm talking about.
Right now I just want to hide under my desk and cry. Literally.
I used up today's quota of 'happyface' earlier this morning, and now I can't even bring myself to fake being cheerful.
I hate that dog.
[1] Of course, at the moment I find it hard to feel any joy whatsoever, but you get the idea.
BAD DOG!! OFF THE COUCH!!! OUTSIDE!!! NOW!!!!
Seriously catsidhe, if living with Mim's family hasn't taught you by now, dogs naturally have such a high oppinion of themselves that they'll make themselves pack leader if you let them. If that was my dog, I'd swat his nose with a rolled up newspaper.
They stand all over everything with their enormous paws, dribble and bring mud in. They think they're Helping. Gentle, but firm- but you've got to be boss, or he'll be humping your leg while you fix him his dinner. And that's just embarrassing.
*ahem*
Anyway, I know this is hard right now, but at the risk of sounding overly Pollyanna-ish, the only way to get better is to be gentle on yourself and keep trying and learning. I hope you find the pleasure of it again, even more than the craft. So, by the sound of it, do quite a few other people who care about you. I think your wife and kids might like it too! :)