Bananarama

One thing (among many) I have never had in my life is the ability to draw. I accepted this around the age of eleven or twelve, when, for a school art project, we were tasked with drawing a banana. Well, I poured my heart and soul into that banana. I mentally divided the fruit into subsections, and drew each little section in as much detail as I possibly could, studying it minutely, and committing every tiny feature to the page.

The result, as you may have guessed, looked nothing like a banana. Or rather, it looked like Frankenstein's banana; a twisted monstrosity haphazardly stitched together from smaller bits of fruit, a mechanical acuminata. Where others had created profound still life, I'd sinned against Nature. I think my art teacher had to have counselling.

Being stuck writing an ongoing novel feels so similar; some days, I can't see the forest for the trees. I concentrate on each little section as hard as I can, and write it as well as I can, but all the time I'm worrying that the whole thing is once again going to end up looking like a fucked up banana.