I have that fear some people do about messing up. There are a lot of blank journals waiting for me to act. "I don't know how to break a blank page," was the first thing to go into this sketchbook. An admission. An ice-breaker. I spent the first half of the sketchbook writing whatever popped into my head before I fell asleep at night. I cleaned house, up there in my brain. And then, for the first time in a very long while, I made art. I worked backwards and forwards and all over. I revisited; added ink and color and place to things I had done before. I evaluated. I thanked. I rediscovered my potential, and fell in love.
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