practice and effort
I am so thirsty, and I wish I knew how to draw.
On Saturday morning, I saw a couple sketches of this little fellow among the drawings the nine-year-old had produced before I got up.
I admired this character, who seems to be running somewhere with anxious urgency. “That took no effort,” responded the nine-year-old, scornfully.
Perhaps so, but hours and hours of practice and attentive study of graphic novels and comics enabled the effortlessness of the drawing. I envy this effortlessness.
Despite years and years of practice, writing almost never feels effortless to me. How I have agonized over these few sentences. I dread sharing them. But I want to practice not just writing, but sharing my writing, which I’ve done inconsistently in recent years. Here goes!
