When I was a kid, I wanted to paint. I would watch Bob Ross create his "happy little trees," and take out my dollar store art pad and water colors and copy his strokes. When he was finished, his canvas was a masterpiece, and mine was a series of greens, browns, blacks, and blues all clumped together in a vivid mess. Maybe I was an abstract artist just waiting to be discovered and did not know it. :-)
Eventually, I grew wary of art implements. In elementary and middle school, I tried to complete the assigned art projects, but no matter the effort I put in, they were far from great. The art teachers I had never worked hard at fostering confidence in my own abilities. They didn't encourage me to enhance my pictures so they could be the best versions of themselves. Instead, they gave me Bs and Cs and praised the landscapes that resembled Bob Ross's, rather than Kandinsky's.
The thing was, I loved art museums and watching others create (still do), and I kept trying. Each time I picked up a crayon, paint brush, or charcoal pencil, I hoped my next drawing would match the picture in my head.
Writing, on the other hand, was something I loved doing and was good at. Funny thing was I never thought that of it as an art. When people talked about art, I envisioned sketchpads and canvases. It didn't occur to me that the scenes I created with my words were art too.
As I got older and read books that vividly described sunsets, forests, and landscapes, something clicked. Writing was art. I was also an artist! Now, while I still wish my drawings could be good enough for display, I know I can paint too. My medium, however, is a pen or the keyboard.