Photography is on the long list of things I want to be able to do but for which I have no talent, along with drawing, woodworking and pairs figure skating. And the common thread in all of that is my inability to turn those things I imagine into reality. That, and weak ankles.

I understand photography principles. I took those classes in journalism school and I took good notes. I can talk all about ASA and shutter speeds, and the differences between Kodacolor, Kodachrome and Ektachrome.

OK, so it’s been awhile.

But I can also expound upon the rule of threes; about using natural lines and shapes to draw your eye to a focal point; the importance of getting close to your subject, all that stuff.

But here’s the thing: I can look at something and imagine what the picture ought to look like. I just can’t take that picture. Not in the viewfinder and certainly not on the desktop. No amount of Photoshop can save it. I can’t translate what I think into what I see.

I guess that’s why I write. Reality doesn’t have to get in the way. Whatever I can think I can write. No harsh shadows, no blurs. I don’t have to worry about hitting the shutter just a fraction too soon or too late.

Case in point. I was at the 1982 U.S. Open Golf championship at Pebble Beach. I had conned my way into not only press credentials but a photo badge. I was inside the ropes with my Beseler Topcon. Perhaps you remember, this was the Open that Tom Watson won, beating Jack Nicklaus by chipping in for birdie from impossibly heavy rough at the back of the 17^th green. Everyone else crouched in front of the green got a picture of the ball in the air headed for the hole. I got Watson pointing back at his caddie Bruce Williams, saying “I told you so.” Not much of a picture. I missed the moment.

Maybe it’s not me. Maybe it’s the camera. But no, a better camera just made my bad pictures more expensive.

On the other hand, I can write the same sentence with a pencil as I can with a Macbook Pro and no one knows the difference. Not that there’s a single thought in these nine paragraphs that anyone would hang on the wall (though the pairs figure skating line was sort of a nice touch).

I’ll admit though, that as a writer I am weak at descriptions and much better at dialogue. I wrote television news for far too long, where descriptions aren’t necessary. You have a photographer for that. I’m told that pictures are worth… a couple of hours of overtime.

In television news, the closest you get to describing anything are the words this and that. As in “the driver of this car drove into that house.” Doesn’t look like much here, but on TV, you’d get it. First rule of television news “say cow, see cow.” Don’t have a picture of a cow, don’t talk about it.

That’s why I want to be able to take pictures. To see cows. Cows that, by their very existence, describe the human condition. Gaunt and standing in a field bare of grass, far from the nearest water, with blank bovine stares silently chewing their cud. Never mind that there is precious little to chew. It is their nature. Standing motionless for hours, only their lower jaw moving.

Oh fuck, never mind, I hate cows. Dumbest animals on earth. Except, you know. Horses.