On Wanting to be The Writer Who Draws

I have never been an artist in the most traditional sense of the word.

I have never been an artist in the most traditional sense of the word. I don’t sketch, or sculpt. I have been to a few of those wine painting parties, but the results of those evenings can hardly be considered “art.”

I never really tried to be an artist, because I thought I had no talent for it. Never took any art classes in high school or college. Was always a great admirer of art but never a creator of art.

After two back-to-back pregnancy losses, writing became a necessity for me, a way to express the immense hurt I felt. I had loved to write since I was a child and during that hot, stagnated summer of 2016, I wanted to turn my writing into something more. Words on a page could only express a portion of what was inside of me.

I bought all of the supplies: paint, canvas, colored pencils, sketchbooks, books for inspiration. I wanted to be prepared for whatever medium would strike me. I tried.

But the pictures I saw in my head could not translate into my fingers.

I abandoned the effort.

Now it is nearly two years later. I still write about grief and the daughters I never got to meet. I have a Rainbow Baby, a…