Every Saturday morning is reserved for drawing practice. Nothing fancy. I sit across from my husband at the doughnut shop with my sketchbook, my pens, my cup of coffee and a bag of mini blueberry tters (three for him, three for me) and I draw: hands, noses, baby faces, dogs, adult faces, copies of old black and white photographs, flowers, whatever.
Sometimes I just try a new pen. Or I experiment with color. Most of the time though, I just draw repetitively, from images I google on my phone.
The first drawings can be pretty awful. I am just coming from a week of doing the things that pay the bills. I must let my mind wander before my hand and eyes can take cover.
I share each practice on Facebook.
This part isn't easy, especially on those days when the drawings don't turn out as well as I think they should. But here is the kicker: no matter how bad I think it is, there is always someone encouraging liking my work. No one is ever as harsh a critic as I am.
I think that is true for most of us. I also think that because viewers aren't necessarily aware of the internal struggles that come with making our art, they can be very generous in their opinion of it. The only person in the way is mostly me.