Why Are Hands So Hard To Draw Novels & Stories

B. C... Or at least… attempts to write them. Her fingers tightened around the pencil, knuckles turning slightly pale as she tried again. Slowly. Carefully. She drew a line. Then sighed and then another line. Then she tried to connect them but the shape came out wrong again. She tried again and this time more carefully as if she would hurt the page but her grip on the pencil said otherwise. She gently moved the pencil and drew the lines but it came out wrong again. Her breath hitched in frustration.

She turned to glare at me but just sighed at the end "Makeup never did come naturally to me like other art. It's cursed and wretched and too hard to learn." I let out a chuckle I hadn't know I was holding. This was the girl that could draw my face perfectly without even looking at it yet she was so flawed in drawing a straight line. "Let me help you." I stepped closer to her, watching her every reaction before plucking the eyeliner from her hand. Her face was a mess of smudged lines made by a shaky hands. "You have to relax honestly, it's not that serious," I whispered for some reason.

My hand hesitated, fingers tight around it. What if I drew restraint? What if I drew the exact moment before breaking, when everything is held together by will alone? My hand moved before I could second-guess myself. The first lines were light. Careful and almost shy. Thin strokes that barely touched the surface, like I was asking permission. I began with the outline of a woman. Tall and still. Her body turned slightly to the side, not facing the viewer fully. There was a quiet strength in her stance, even in the rough sketch. Her shoulders were straight, but not relaxed. They carried weight.

I stared at the white paper. I couldn't draw a single thing. Every time I tried to move my hand, the lines came out shaky and wrong. They felt heavy and ugly. I erased them and tried again, but my hand wouldn't stop trembling. "Focus," I whispered, my voice cracking in the quiet room. "Just focus."

Fueled with the need for money, I pick myself up, set a blank canvas on the easel, and start drawing. Like the first, I leave a good space for the face and start stroking the torso. I start with a line linking his collar bones and both shoulders to his neck, down to his biceps. My fingers grip the pencil too tightly, leaving rough edges as I carve Dominic Mercer to life. I've done this before so it should be simple. Except that every stroke feels forced, inauthentic… naked yet bland. It's the kind of explicit portrait you glance at once and wish to pluck out your eyes.

Her hand instinctively creates mountains, trees, and grass while her mind is in constant mess criticizing her works without trusting the process. ‘What is this? Can you even call this an art?’ Tanya frowned at her drawing, maybe because it’s been two years since Tanya stop drawing that she doubts her drawing. ‘No, I can’t stop…. I want to but I also don’t want to’ Tanya hesitantly loosens up her grip on her pencil before gripping it tightly. Tanya clenches her teeth before sketching back but after a minute has passed, Tanya rips off the paper again.

“Fun fact. The artist drew that by hand. No software nor ruler grids. Just three years of soft torture and sheer lunacy.” She turned to her side to see Gideon standing a few feet away, hands tucked in his pockets,the faintest grin tugging at his mouth. “Three years?” she said with a raised brow. He nodded. “Yeah. He was obsessed with memory. Said he wanted the city to look the way it does in our heads — how it starts to change every time you picture it again. That’s why the lines don’t line up. Every redraw, he changed something. It’s technically wrong, but that’s kind of the point.”

“Because, you’ve always been waiting for me, and I’ve always been in your hands." I took the sketchbook and looked at the drawing. It was terribly drawn. The lines were crooked, the proportions were completely off — the bigger person’s head was bigger than their body, and the smaller one looked more like a smudge of paint that had accidentally gotten there. But it was the best drawing I’d ever seen. Better than any painting hanging in an art museum. Because that little blob of paint was drawn in the palm of another person’s hand. I closed the sketchbook and stood up. I took Camila’s hand and walked toward the parking lot. Her hand was tiny — it could barely wrap around a single finger of min

More strange because I can't even hold a brush nor do I have an idea of how to draw. I had witnessed youngsters in the pack draw beautiful pieces before but I never got close to admiring it for the fear of being scorned. Never knew brush was this lightweight and ticklish by the mouth. I chuckled when I shook myself with the mouth again. Staring at the white paper for what seemed like eternity, my hand rested on it. Surprising me, even though I've fully recovered from the silver belt, I doubted if this was my doing. I don't even know how to draw a straight line. Raising up my back after several decades, my eyes glistened with tears as I beheld the masterpiece before me.

I ordered a latte and found a table by the window, pulling out the sketchbook I’d started carrying with me again. I hadn’t drawn anything in weeks. Every time I picked up a pencil, it felt like my hand didn’t belong to me, like I’d lost the part of myself that knew how to create. But today, I forced myself to try. My hand trembled slightly as I pressed the pencil to the blank page, and for a moment, I just stared at it, unsure of where to begin.