When people ask what I do for a living, and I tell them I’m a writer, I often get this comment, with a long gush, “Oh, I have always wanted to write!”

My response is, “Then do it.”

I understand these people, you see.

I feel the same way about being a painter.

I wanted to be a writer more than I wanted blood to run through my veins, but my second career choice would be painting.

I envisioned myself out in a cozy yellow studio, huge windows, with a view of the sunset. (I don’t get up for sunrises).  I would drink coffee, and wear cool paint – splattered size six jeans and a white t- shirt. I’d capture my curls, which would be, miraculously, not frizzy for once, on top of my head.

KC The Cat, who has many emotional issues, would be wandering around. I would listen to Mozart and Vivaldi, Def Leppard and Kid Rock, depending on my mood, as my brushes flew through the air, tubes of rich paints piled around me, next to vases filled with wildflowers.

I would have easels up and stunning canvases hung. The canvasses would be blasts of originality, color, and emotional beauty.

Early on, though, I recognized that there were some serious flaws with this delightful daydream: I have almost zero artistic talent.

I am not being falsely modest here. It is a fact. It is good to know where you fall flat in life so you can quit banging your head against a brick wall that won’t fall down.

If you asked me to paint a person to save my life, you would have to settle for a semi-stick person who looked like she had a broken neck or a sixth finger. You would wonder if the stick person was on drugs or having a nervous breakdown. The stick figure would look like a seedy man dressed as a buck – toothed woman, crossed with a dragon.

Paint and I don’t get along.

But it’s a fun vision.

When I was a freelance writer for The Oregonian, I interviewed a lot of creative people, many of them artists.  When I met the painters in their studios, I felt like diving into an artistic swoon right there.

One of my favorite artists of all time, Katherine Ace, http://www.katherineace.com/, had an entire lower level built with 15 foot tall ceilings and skylights. She used all sorts of neat things in her paintings, newspapers, twigs, nature, and she had this imagination that tripped along the edges of heaven.  She also had cool hair.  My mind about exploded looking at her work.

Another artist, Sharon Bronzan, http://www.augengallery.com/Artists/bronzan.html,  had my dream studio in her backyard. It was small, warm, private, and all her amazing, gripping paintings, paintings that were filled with women, birds, leaves, and mystery, somehow spoke to me.  When I looked into the eyes of the women in her art I knew we were having a conversation through the paint.

Sherrie Wolf,  http://www.sherriewolfstudio.com/,  had a house off 23rd street in Portland. Built in 1906, they remodeled it and in the process Sherrie got a 1000 square foot, white walled studio with – brace yourself – a rooftop garden.  Her paintings looked so real I wanted to touch them or eat them. There was always a bit of whimsy or magic, too.

Those painters had studios that one would protect with two swords and a group of shady hit men.

Now, back to all those people who have told me they really want to write a book:  Start writing. For those of you who are writing now, keep writing. You do not need a yellow studio or an emotionally stunted cat.  Write because you love to write.  Go to classes with other writers. Join a writing group. Do it because you love it.

And hey. Maybe one day I’ll take a painting class.

Or…I’ll sit at my kitchen table, squish out some paints, make sure KC the Cat doesn’t walk across the canvas, and begin.