I neglect this blog for a simple reason. Vanity under any other name remains the same.
I suffer from my own over-inflated great expectations.
I've filled at least two Rhodias with page after page of practice.
I wish I'd dated the pages. Someday I'll look back, see where I started . . . and wonder how I could have been so insecure.
My handwriting, despite its flaws, is still legible, even on my worst days.
A pinched nerve makes my grip falter and my hand shakes. When the pain makes it too hard to control my pen, I revert to my own hand, and I'm off again. A larger nib holder helps. So does flipping through practice pages, photos of envelopes addressed on better days, viewing pros like Lindsey, over at The Postman's Knock, and I hold onto Hope a little tighter. Hope becomes Belief all dressed up. Persistence is fuel.
When I feel like I want to give up, a flipped page, a trade of a pencil for a pen, a promise of, "It'll be better tomorrow," and a quick sketch draws me out of the hole Vanity dug. Beginnings have endings. Practice makes up the middle. Desire fuels the aim directed at he bullseye. A steady arm is necessary. Wow. What now?
This is where I draw the line. I can still recall how learning how to draw felt a lot like learning calligraphy.