Novel & Cerita Why Are Hands So Hard To Draw

Honestly, I need to find that boy a girlfriend just so he gives me a break. “We’re good. Missing you,” Mom says. “How’d your final project go? I know you were stressing.” She’s talking about the family portrait I had to sketch for class. I love drawing people—but real people are harder. It’s easy to spot every flaw in your own work when it’s someone you know. My biggest issue? I draw everything too symmetrically. It’s more pleasing to the eye, but real people aren’t symmetrical. One eye’s lower, one arm longer, one cheek rounder. It makes people beautiful—and also makes them hard as hell to draw.

The moon shone brightly down on its body, allowing me to see its dark and light grey fur with tints of black and brown clearly. As if I were under a spell by its beauty, I felt myself slowly creeping toward it and stopped close to its side. Unable to fight the urge to touch its fur, I reached out a hand to touch it, but when I did, his body morphed so fast that I was stunned to see his arm holding mine, now naked. Even in his human form, he still avoids looking at me, despite our closeness. I was used to it; after all, I dwell in a house with a mother who can't even stand to see the face of her own daughter.

“What reason would I have to stall?” “You’ve redrawn my hands four times.” I glanced down at the sheet, and the truth was, she wasn’t wrong. Four studies of the same hands, none of them different enough to justify the paper I’d wasted on them. “They’re difficult to get right,” I muttered. “They’re just hands, Davin.” “I’m a perfectionist,” I responded. “You should know that by now. Plus, it’s not my fault. It’s difficult to get them right when it comes to you.”

She nodded slowly. “Yes.” “Is it work?” She shook her head. “No.” He paused. “Is it your heart?” That question hit her deeply. She swallowed. “I don’t know,” she said honestly. The professor nodded. “Sometimes, when the heart is heavy, the hands cannot create.” Naomi felt her fingers shake a little. “I want to draw,” she said. “But I can’t.” “You don’t have to force it,” he replied. Naomi looked at him. “But if I stop… I will fall behind.”

Like he’s allowing me to see a side that no one else sees. I clean the blood first. He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t even react. It somehow makes it worse. “Is there a particular reason why it’s just your left hand and not both?” I ask. It’s more of a tactic to fill the silence, rather than a true need to know. I think he’s not going to answer but then he says, “I use my right hand to draw. Can’t afford to damage it.” I nod, because that makes sense. But it still doesn’t explain why he’d hurt himself at all.

But there was something missing in this outfit. I chewed on the back of my pencil whilst thinking about it. What might he have missed while drawing it? But then my mind sidetracked to some other direction, pondering about his hands which were hard but drawn such a design. It was light, filling the lighter and darker spaces at the accurate places. I used to love his artistic hands because they used to be longer, sleek and gripped the pencil in a fluent manner. We both liked art and sketching, but Dhruv was more of technology and game person. He used to say one day he would make a game which all world would see.

Her hand moved sporadically, rubbing against the lead of the pencil on the page until…it stopped. She set her pencil down beside her book and it rolled back and forth until it settled in its chosen position. Waverly's gaze was stuck on the drawing she had just completed and casually picked it up by the edges, bringing it to the forefront of her sight. It was unlike anything she had ever drawn. The marks were unplanned and rushed, but in a structured manner. In some places, continuous lines created distinct features and the areas where her hand had smudged the outline generated a smoky grey, providing the art with a unique depth that she would never be able to replicate.

Even when he wasn’t physically here, his presence lingered through the penthouse like a ghost wrapped around my throat. I picked up a pencil and opened my sketchbook, trying desperately to steady my breathing. The lines came out wrong immediately. Jagged, uneven, chaotic. Nothing like me. I stared down at the messy sketch in frustration. My designs used to flow naturally from me, elegant and confident. Now my hands shook so badly I could barely draw a straight line. Because this wasn’t inspiration anymore. It was survival. I dropped the pencil and pressed my palms against my eyes. “I can do this,” I whispered to myself weakly.

She took a book and pen and left the room again, going to do what she loved doing most - art. She walked for sometime, found a quiet place to sit and looked around for what to draw. Thank goodness, where she found was quiet and comfy and she was sure no one would disturb her. She opened a fresh page on her art book and looked around for what to draw. She spotted some people playing and having fun and wondered if she could perhaps, give it a try to draw the image of one of them. Ugh! She couldn't tell why she found it so difficult drawing a human. She's never been able to give it a try.

Lysander said gently, not looking up from his own work. "You're trying to make them perfect, but nature isn't perfect. Look at the tree again - its branches twist and turn, its bark has knots and cracks, its leaves aren't all the same shape. Those imperfections are what make it beautiful, what give it character and life. Let your hand move naturally, like you're drawing music instead of shapes."