A wonderful depiction of the art of writing.
By Marilyn L. Davis
Growing up in a family of artists, I was always jealous of their talents when they captured emotions, exotic scenes, or reproduced life-like drawings. Then there were the props – the smell of paint, easels with a canvas fully covered, that only a few days before had been a completely white surface. Or an unfinished still life; waiting for the right light.
My mother was a cloth artist. She could buy a piece of fabric and two weeks later be in another store without a swatch and perfectly match the hue, family or an exact color.
I, on the other hand, confused red and orange.
My sister won her first art contest at age 7; competing with adults. Since she is younger than I am, you can imagine how inadequate and unimportant I felt. Drawing, painting and winning art shows comes naturally to some children; writing…
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