Yesterday, I started doodling around in my sketchbook in church. Soon my hand holding a flower had morphed into an arm and a body and a whole figure, and the flower had mutated into a torch or a staff or some sort of cup. Before I knew it, what had started off as one vague, romantic idea had manifested itself instead as a pre-existing character of mine. She's not the sort to say "tada!" or anything similarly melodramatic. Rather, she held my gaze for a moment with her enigmatic cerulean eyes, then turned her head and stretched up her arm to grasp that twisted drinking horn.
Today, for the first time in quite a long time, I had a reason to dig out my scrapbooking pens and ink a drawing. It felt right to toss my glasses aside and rest one hand on the other to careful pick out what was important in bold, dark, permanent lines. There's a certain amount of fearlessness required to touch nib to paper, forever altering that satisfying sketch for good or ill.
In the next few days maybe I'll be coloring again. Maybe I'll be enjoying that soft shhhk of pencil sharpener on wood, the shavings curling off colorfully.
Listening to: Castle
Reading: Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince by J. K. Rowling
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