A few years back my bff talked me into taking a ballet class.
She is a born dancer.
I am not.
But I liked the idea of having an excuse to buy a tutu and ballet slippers. I'm all about the get-up. I started playing tennis for the same reason. Am I the only one out there that finds tennis skirts irresistible? It always boils down to fashion does it not?
So I agreed. I went faithfully for a month or two but I got to the point where I just couldn't bear the embarrassment one more week. I was the girl in the back two steps behind. The galumping ogar that fell into the other ballerinas. The clown. Can't you just see me in your mind's eye? It's not that hard to imagine. It was a debacle.
I gave it my best shot. I really did.
When I started illustrating, I didn't think much of it. Ideas just seemed to flow down my arm and out through the pen. I was just doodling. Nothing serious. It was relaxing.
When I try to make my illustrations look like the ones my favorite artist draw they look ridiculous. I feel ridiculous.
As hard as I try, I can't seem to be anything other than just plain old me. So I've decided to be okay with that.
I just need to be the best me possible.
And I'm holding out hope that The Bird can dance. I'll get that tutu one way or the other.