For a year or so, I have started a series of sketches, an assortment of plants, vines and flowers (because I find I couldn’t really sketch anything else). I turned a favorite journal into a book of random illustrations (in this case, illustrations of unknown plants and flowers which origins could only come from my imagination without semblance to any reality).
What started as a portrayal to try illustrating some bushes and exteriors for my short stories and novels turned into a half serious hobby borne out of my few childhood frustrated interests. When I was in kindergarten, I pretty much remembered half a ream of my paper was filled with drawings of houses (with curved Art Deco windows), rice fields, clouds and a handful of human figures (which I discovered early on that I could not ever do) out of my passion to draw. But I stopped attempting during high school when I looked at my classmates’ awesome works and realized in dismay that I haven’t got the talent and that what I had been doing was merely a sort of dabbling.
Pretty much that speaks of the rest of my failed artsy endeavors. Sometimes I feel more of a dilettante than someone who has a genuine passion to arts not because of indifference to knowledge but more for out of the lack of academic background and of talent. Writing as a profession is a bit like that to me, too. Nevertheless, it didn’t really hinder me to try my hands on them sporadically over the years.
In the end, I write and sketch and paint watercolors (another interest) for myself.