I dug out something this morning that I hadn't seen in fifteen years -- the small sketchbook that nudged me out of the world of stick figures for a nanosecond when I was living in Ottawa. At the time, I'd spent most of my life thinking of myself as completely incapable of putting pencil to paper to draw, or at least of having anything come out other than a mess of squiggles and blurs. It's what I'd been told to expect most of my kid-hood whenever a colour spilled out over a line, or when my Catechism class depictions of Christ on the cross came out too morbid. I think that I'm going to make it a point to spend at least an hour a day, when possible, either writing or otherwise putting pencil or pen to paper. It beats wasting an hour aimlessly surfing the internet, no?