My uncle Tom, a talented and enthusiastic artist with no shortage of fantastical ideas, passed away last year, but it wasn’t until a couple of weeks ago that I had an opportunity to dig through some of his old art supplies. Digging through the chilly corner of my parents’ garage where my uncle's things were stored, I filled a small grocery bag with whatever looked promising.
Once home, I weeded out the rock hard tubes of paint, rusty pen nibs, and brushes with bad perms, leaving me with little more than a few pencils and a cool vintage sharpener.
Nevertheless, I felt inspired and went to the local art store to get a bottle of fresh ink, a brush, and some paper.
Feeling cramped and unsteady, I started off slowly, rediscovering old techniques and experimenting with new ones.
“Ah,” I said, flipping to a fresh white page, “now I remember why I used to like doing this so much.”
Maybe I'll illustrate my novel.
Maybe.
