It is all about patience. Art is an act of patience and it is in that part I fail. I am too eager and too impatient. I make my very best but I get tired in the middle, when I still have the potential to do more. And so, I land where I do. Somewhere in the middle. I am not bad at drawing, but I am not good either. Somewhere in between, somewhere in the middle. It is not good enough, because I know I can do more. If only I had the patience. If only I knew when to stop.
With this fake journal I am making an attempt to do more. Do different. Be J.E.P. He, who, ironically become a cliché: when in the right mood, he draws his girlfriends, and they – of course – are beautiful, if not only in his own eyes. They are more or less naked – obviously – because that is how he likes them the most. Or he paints in his less mature way. And oh, have I tried to make those drawings and failed: military men or animals with big machine guns.
Oh, why do you have to be such a cliché?
And why do you have to have such a male chauvinist pig attitude towards this poor girl?
Anyway, he is maturing through the novel, no doubt about it. This is in the beginning. He is all young and stupid.
J.E.P. please show me you can do better than this? Draw better? And not just half dressed girls and weapons, please?