My beautiful little boy, Quinn, was laying on my lap. He is so alert now, he is constantly moving and absorbing everything. I pulled out my little pocket sketch book, and began to draw.

His quizzical eyes, his rapidly moving head, his mess of blonde hair. That particular turn of his nose. My pencil moved rapidly. Three minutes in, I looked down at my drawing, and was astonished by what I beheld. The worst, most horrific, terrible, inaccurate, awful sketch I’d ever seen. I mean, come on, let’s be honest, this drawing looks like Napoleon suffering from dementia.

Do you honestly need another reason to read this blog? I mean, other artists would have you believe that they speak seventeen languages, and that every time they get up to bat, they hit a home run. Not only did I not hit a homer, I didn’t hit the ball. But to my credit, I always swing really, really hard.


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