It was late afternoon when I took my seat at the drawing table and picked up my 9H. I was not inspired today. I relied on self discipline and I stuck to my plan: be quiet and allow my hand to move.
As my mind settled I became aware of a self-critical inner dialog making fun of my scribbling, decrying the waste of paper, the waste of time, the worthlessness of the effort, and the insubstantial results.
The inner voice becoming exasperated, emotions signaling surrender, arm muscles pulling my hand from the page, I was on the verge of tossing away the card in a rage when, through the anger, and despite my best effort to deny the process, a flower bloomed.