I can’t help myself. I write and scribble on EVERYTHING, EVERYWHERE. If people are talking to me and I’m bored I start writing poetry in my head or wondering if I can find a pen and some paper so I can draw this thing that wants to get out of my head and onto the torn bits of scrap I just found (and I have actually wondered, at times, if the person talking to me will notice that I’m drawing)…because that’s how my thoughts run…write it, draw it and do it now. Sometimes, after being out, I run into the house because I can’t wait to get the poem out of my head so I can stop repeating it and revising it and not being able to write it down. LOL never boring, that’s for sure. But these little scribbles take a couple of minutes and are done while I’m doing other things and they just kind of spill onto the page. They have life and a personality and just need room to breath. I have no idea where they come from or why they end up looking the way they do but trust me when I say that I just hold the pen and give them their freedom…they know who they are, I just open the door.