Echo Beach Tide Pools

That Little Voice
by Keith Alan Johnson 01-15-2000

As a child I never had that drive to write or draw, but I always had an "artistic feeling". I would find it in music. I would put on an LP and headphones and close my eyes, lost in my own world of sound and imagination. I would find it in the air. On crisp autumn days I would chase after falling maple tree seeds, lost again in my own imaginings. I would curl up with a good book and imagine myself within the worlds described on the page.

My parents called me a dreamer, but they understood that state of mind. They are artists themselves. It is their bread and butter. It is the "family" business. They probably never understood the fantasies I created within my own mind. The fact that I never talked about them didn't help. Yet they understood the artistic nature that all three of their children possessed. Of the three of us, I never expressed it.

In 1980 I attended a Science Fiction convention that changed my life. Norwescon 4 was my first such experience. The biggest impact it had on me happened afterwards. One of my six other roommates had purchased the first 9 issues of a black and white comic. While the story was entertaining and original, I was more impressed with the art. As I read on through the issues I started hearing a small voice.

"You could do this," it told me. "You could do this."

I was amazed. I looked up as one of my roommates walked into the room and said out loud "I could do this." Of course I was embarrassed. The artist of the comic was a professional and I had never picked up a pencil to do anything other then doodle.

So at age 23 I started to explore my artistic talents. I spent 5 days filling an 18 by 24 inch piece of newsprint with a rendition of Excalibur in the stone. I followed that up with a 9 day exploration of a tree being magically reborn in a burned out field. It was my tribute to the comic I was reading.

The two drawings weren't great. They were childishly rendered and guaranteed not to last. Newsprint doesn't really survive well. Despite that, I still heard the voice.


"You can do this. This is fun. You can do this."

I took a number of life drawing classes and workshops. I experimented with painting classes and design classes. My ability did indeed improve. And I had fun.

Some years later I received a letter out of the blue from someone I didn't know. I was suspicious of it. I had just received a similar letter from someone who proved to be somewhat irritating. I didn't want to go through that again. Still I chose to return a letter to this one. The author, Mark, picked up my address from the letters page of the Elfquest comic. He was writing to anyone who was local to him. He was starting his own Elfquest fan club and wanted to know if I would like to join. It involved writing stories and drawing and publishing a fanzine of our own work.

I hemmed and hawed. I was never a good writer in school. My spelling was terrible and naturally I had assumed that my composition must also be terrible. I hated writing because of all of the bad grades and baggage that came with it.

I wrote back and told him I would create a character for his club, and perhaps write one story, but that was it. I picked up a pad of paper and a pencil I started composing the story. Soon that little voice spoke again.

"You can do this. This is fun. You can do this."

I soon set aside the pen and paper, it wasn't enough, and bought a typewriter. I slowly learned how to type, naturally falling from the two finger hunt and peck to four fingers, six, then finally typing as one would normally type with all fingers falling where they belong. I taught myself how to type through default.

In 1985 I bought my first computer, hardly a calculator or a typewriter when compared to today's standards, and wrote a number of stories for the fan club. And the voice was right. It was fun.

That wasn't the only benefit I received from Mark. It was through Mark that I found a number of like-minded people. They were all adults. They were all dreamers, like myself. Some were artists. Some were writers. Some were both. All of them were having fun.

So here it is 20 years after I first heard the little voice. It has never left me. It still speaks to me. It says nothing else.

"You can do this. This is fun. You can do this."

Why am I not a published writer? Why am I not an accomplished artist? Is it important that I be? Perhaps persistence is a virtue. I can't even say recognition is what I want. I just love the feeling I get when I settle in to draw or write. I can say this; I still have that "artistic feeling", that dreamers heart. And now the feeling has a voice. ...a little, persistent voice, even after 20 years.

"You can do this. This is fun. You can do this."

01-15-2000

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