The Artist

Flash Fiction

The Artist

I am an artist, I think. On some things not even a good artist, but I love it anyway. I don’t do it to be acknowledged, or to sell stuff, I just do what I like, and what makes me happy.

If that sounds weird think of cooks… I can’t cook my way out of a paper bag, and don’t even want to try! But people who do cook do it because they love it, and then they feed their project to others, and are more delighted! Various art projects delight me, I just don’t feed them to people.

Of course I write. I write words way more than I talk them. I go days sometimes without really talking to anybody, unless I can count my dog. Oscar always listens.

I have many projects beyond writing. I draw, build things, I love gardening… painting, not so much. When I was in school, I had to paint when the class painted. I know people love paintings, nobody loved mine, especially me! My paintings were painted just because it was required, and they looked it. I did paint Santa looking in the glass window on my mother’s back door once. It scared her to death! She thought it was a burglar! I think that’s when I gave up on painting entirely.

Drawing is a favorite though. I love to draw. Most of my drawings are single things, a kid, a dog, a house… I guess it’s just doodling really, but I do love it. I also make jewelry out of string, and beads and ribbons. Which I tend to give away because I don’t wear jewelry, or beads, or ribbons. It’s just fun to make.

Is that enough to call one’s self an artist? I may be wrong, but I think so.