Sometimes you do stuff because you have to, even though you really suck at it–like use glue, or play the pianola blindfolded and upside down. Sometimes you do stuff because you like it, even though you’re not very good at it–like make giant cupcakes. Sometimes you do things because you both like doing said things and are good at doing them–like paint.
No, I’m not talking about painting-painting, like what Pablo Picasso and that guy with the weird hat do, but like painting walls and stuff. I can paint walls like nobody’s business. Of course, one must always ask the question: What’s so great about painting, anyway? And, while we’re at it, will you come and help paint my room this weekend?
To answer the first question: You don’t really have to think about painting, which means you can think about other things instead, like how to fix plot holes in your story or what would happen if you hang-glided off the top of the Chrysler Building or the meaning of life or whatever it is that people think about while they paint. It’s very conducive for the thought-developing process. I’m pretty sure that Garcia Marquez came up with One Hundred Years of Solitude while painting–well, actually, he came up with the idea when he was driving to Mexico City and then he made his family turn around and go back to Colombia so that he write, but that’s irrelevant to the point I’m trying to make, which is that painting is fun and stimulating for ye olde noggin.
To answer the second question: Not unless there’s a free pizza in the deal for me.