I took my first art class when I was twelve years old. It was also my last. My instructor handed me cheap paper, brushes and paint, then told me to paint a self-portrait. To say the least, the results were less than brilliant. I was discouraged and the instructor saw no reason for me to waste another minute of his time. I obviously had no innate talent.

A few years down the road someone gave me a bunch of art supplies. Good ones. I was almost afraid to use them, but when I finally dipped that first brush in that first dab of paint I was amazed. What a difference. I didn't immediately create a masterpiece. I still haven't, but my dreams of being an artist came back to me. I started to study and work on my own. If no one else ever thought I had talent, I could at least create something I thought was beautiful, or interesting, or unique.

I've always been a dreamer. All my life, one person or another has pointed this out. Often, some well meaning person would advise me to be more practical. My mother once told me, "There are a lot of very talented people out there living in poverty." She was right. There are. I'm more sure about the poverty than I am about my talent, but anyone who knows me knows I don't have what it takes to be a starving artist. So ... not being completely impractical, I'm keeping my day job, at least until I'm old enough to retire or ... (we all know what or is).