I think of my self as a creative visualizer. I love to tell stories with pictures.
The story goes that when I was born, I was obsessed with the pen and pencil in the doctor’s lab coat pocket. I kept reaching for them and once I got a hold of one, I’d wave my arm around and end up drawing on anything within my short reach — walls, floors, people.
“My son the artist.” My father would proudly say.
My grip was so strong that it was almost impossible to pry the pen or pencil out of my chubby little hand. As my mother would observe, with pencil in hand, I was content, but without it, I would cry.
This cute habit finally got so annoying. That the doctor ordered his nurse to sew my sleeves closed.
Nothing’s changed. I’m still only happy when my shirt sleeves are rolled up and I'm in the zone, creating.