Drawn To It

 I drew a cartoon the other day. I have been doing more of this since my birthday. My wife gave me a sketchbook with the unspoken hope that I might fill it with "drawlings." Initially, the blank pages were intimidating, as they so often are, and I hesitated to pull the top off the pen to try scratching out a figure of some sort. Then I remembered: I'm not getting paid for this. 

Suddenly the creative faucet that had been frozen shut began to trickle. Not a torrent, mind you, just a steady drip or two. Enough that every day or so I had something to look at. I leave it open so that my wife will see what I have been up to. Sketch-wise. In this way, it is similar to this blog. I'm not writing a novel and my audience rarely exceeds double digits, but I was pleased to hiear that once while I was away at work my son dripped by and perused the first ten or so artifacts. He gave me his approval via his mother. 

Some of you out there may recall when I was more free with a pen. I scribbled on most any free scrap of paper, figuring that I owuld be way ahead in the exchange if every picture was worth a thousand words, an illustrated bundle of my cartoons would be a major opus. These are not, however, works of high art. Instead, they are whiims that happened to have enough substance to give them lines enough to fill  most of a page. They remind me of the talent that sleeps quietly beneath the surface, waiting for me to be entertained enough by an idea that I would want to capture it. It's also a reminder that once a year I get to trot out my "best work" in the form of the family Christmas card. I don't expect that this year will be very different, but I would imagine that I will have more practice before crunch time. 

Meanwhile, I continue to make these pictures with no specific intent. That cartoon I mentioned at the beginning was not terribly different from many that I have generated over the years. It's a scruffy headed individual, pointing to himself, asking "Could you imagine having to draw me seven days a week?" Because that's where I, if you'll pardong the expression, draw the line. Endless repetition of the same characters for the sake of syndication leaves me cold. "Why don't you make a book of those cute pigs you draw?" is the question I have batted away for decades now. The answer is simple: Because I don't want to have to do it. I'm very happy when these flights of imagination appear before me without having to consider anyone but myself. 

I am, after all, my favorite audiene.