I asked my mother once what I did as a little kid. I was concerned about trying to find my voice and the real me and the rest of all that angst.
She said I was always drawing.
And I still like to draw. I’d like to be gifted at drawing, but I’m not. I’m a meat and potatoes kind of artist, not a famous gourmet chef kind of artist – I can usually create a picture of a face or body or scene or something – that looks exactly like someone. Or something or somewhere. Just sadly the likeness ends there. If I were to make a drawing of you it’d really look like someone.
Just not you.
Perhaps the CIA could hire me to make drawings of people abducted by aliens.
Perhaps that’s what I draw – the real person – the real, inner you – what you’d look like if you hadn’t been abducted by aliens.