
Since I was small, I have wanted to paint. But I waited until I was thirty before I actually took up a brush. Why? The simple answer is fear. There are many visual artists in my family. I was afraid I would never measure up to their standards. It was safer not to try.
I write because I have to. I’ve been writing poems and stories for as long as I can remember. Writing has much to do with how I functioned in the world, connect with friends and family, make choices, and make a living.
Being a visual artist is still important to me, so I continue my drawing and painting practices. I also play music. I recently started taking drum lessons. I’m not proficient as a painter or a drummer, and I may never be. I still believe filling your life with many different types of creative processes has merits.
And I’m not alone.
Finding the book, Writer’s Brush a few years ago was a turning point in my thinking about incorporating multiple arts into my life. It continues to bolster my confidence in making visual art especially. Editor, Donald Friedman presents a catalog of visual art by famous writers—Mark Twain, Maxine Hong Kingston, Flannery O’Connor, Sylvia Plath, E. E. Cummings, Derek Walcott—and often includes excerpts of commentary by them about their drawings and paintings.
E. E. Cummings reminds readers that every authentic “work of art is in and of itself alive and that however the arts may differ among themselves, their common function is the expression of that supreme alive-ness which is known as beauty.”
In an excerpt from “The Nature and Aim of Fiction,” an essay published in 1957 and reprinted in Friedman’s book, Flannery O’Connor writes that her main task as a writer is to make the reader see, and she recommends the visual arts to other writers. “Any discipline can help your writing: logic, mathematics, theology, and of course and particularly drawing. Anything that helps you to see, anything that makes you look. The writer should never be ashamed of staring…I know a good many fiction writers who paint, not because they’re any good at painting, but because it helps their writing. It forces them to look at things.”
The last part of O’Connor’s quote—the part about the writers she knows not being any good at painting—has shored up my resolve to keep drawing and painting even when the images I make look like hell, which is most of the time. If I’m too tired and frustrated to aim for Cumming’s spiritually elevated “supreme alive-ness” I can still tell myself I’m reaching for something a bit more useful: painting is good for my writing.
Speaking on the same wavelength, Friedman quotes Derek Walcott who describes his own unsentimental approach to visual art-making: “No seasoned artist ever expects trumpets and a visionary light saying, ‘Go now to the studio.’ You just get up and you do your work as if you are a mason and a carpenter…you get an immense kick out of painting for ten minutes, and then you realize it’s hard.” Writes the editor, Friedman: “Artistry is not a matter of inspiration for Walcott, but of craftsmanship.” It’s that way for me too. Just doing the work is my primary mode of operation, if I have one.
One final note: It helps to have a purpose in making art, especially when creativity seems in short supply. For me that purpose has been community. Art brings us together in unique and important ways. It helps us communicate, honor one another’s experiences, and move forward together peacefully. Making art–no matter what it looks like–brings you into the conversation. Your voice matters.






