I’ve been incredibly busy… more than I can really relate. Between drawing, writing, music making, and whatever else the day brings… I’m just busy. All the time.

I write a lot of these posts in advance, though I won’t tell you how far. It’s the only way I can get it done and make it look like I update my content frequently.

You should know, that I’m not a writer. Not really.

My partner says that I am. She says: “You write, therefore you are.”

I laugh and don’t have a witty retort. I’m just not that fast. Now that I’m sitting here typing this, I think:

I write all the time.
I write because I’m an artist.
I draw pretty pictures and produce fun sounds.
These are the things I like to do.
But I write about them because, well, I’m supposed to.

I write about my art because…
I want people to see it. I want them to like it. Adding words to pictures makes it a bit more appealing.

A little piece of me, shared to the world, so you can connect with the artist.

Really, though, I’m just as insecure as everyone else, looking for validation. Looking for one more follower, one more like, one more whatever.

I think my art is fun… even when it misses technical fundamentals.
But… I don’t like to talk about my art in great detail.
Mostly, I just don’t want anyone to feel obligated to say nice things.
I know art is personal, what I see won’t always be the same as what you see.

That’s why I write it down, you can stop reading whenever you want.

So… I’m not a writer. I’m just an artist who writes. Which also makes a handy excuse for grammatical errors, typos, and endings that could have been better.