"unborn baby writes next great american novel"

i've never really tried to make money off of doing art. not really. so, when something fell in my lap - in my cup of coffee - of course i took it up. why the heck not?

"do you draw?"
"yes."
"do you draw people?"
"yes."
"that look like people?"
"(nod)"
"i have a project."

even though i don't work there anymore, i still go to my coffeeshop almost everyday. for at least an hour. an overtly extended coffeebreak to break the suicidal monotony of my deathdeskjob. free espresso and an all around good time. perhaps i should have stayed and put up with the low cash flow for the sake of my mental health. anyway, so i'm there. and this older guy, a recognizable regular, wants someone to draw some pictures.

"these are pictures. pictures that my granddaughter tells me about. like, for instance, a lima bean."
"..."
"or, a young girl on a sailboat with the wind and spray in her face. she tells me these things. tells them to my mind."
"...?"
"my daughter is having my granddaughter. she's due soon. and we talk."
"you have telepathic conversations with your unborn granddaughter?"
"thought talk. she tells me these pictures. i want someone to draw them. i'm making a book. she's writing it to me. 'Thought Talk with Grandpaw from Granddaw.'"
"okay. um, how many pictures?"
"ten or so."
"and what quality of drawing?"
"like, not anything too fancy."
"stick figures?"
"a step above stick. maybe two steps. i want them like cartoons. can you do it? i'll be paying you, of course."
"ten drawings? a hundred bucks."

should have asked for more, i know. what the flying fuck? all i can think of is a slimy fetus with a bullhorn, sending suggestive messages of boats and possibly new cars so she's all taken care of when she get out of there. ew.

and this guy is strangely pushy. he gives me a stack of paper and a list of drawing topics. he tells me i can step up the quality and get duly compensated. this happens friday. monday, he comes in during my quality coffee time.

"are they done?"
"no." come on, man.
"they're going to induce labor."
"you need this as soon as she's born?"
"ideally."
"uh, like, tomorrow?"
"yeah."
"i'll see what i can do."

i'm "sick" for the next two days. i do not go into the coffeeshop. i avoid. the pictures are not done. i've made sketches, but no finished pieces. tuesday, i draw for five hours.

fuck, these are stupid.

not my style of drawing, at all. why did i think i could do cartoon people? and for some reason, i can't draw two-year-old and grandparents (one drawing topic). they look scribbled or withered. too ageless or too old. i don't want to be insulting. i don't want this to reflect how i really draw, how i'd like to draw. i don't want to be doing this. the whole thing has weirded me out more so than i thought i would. after much struggle and some constructive criticism from my roommate ("yeah, sorry, those really suck"), i finish the drawings. they're queer, but whatever. i want it done. i don't even care. gah. over with.

girl chasing butterflies...pregnant mother with bellybutton sticking out...me and Granddaw stirring a pot of spaghetti sauce....it could be really austere. my mother could do this with much more tact (being an artist of children and adults, more in this vein). i'm thinking he won't like them. i want to have reason to be cocky, but these aren't good drawings. i even got to the point of berating myself while drawing - "you know you can do better! why do these look like the margins of your junior high notebook?" but, honestly, it is what it is. and she's due.

i haven't turned them over yet. it's thursday. i'll go over to the coffeeshop now and see what notes he's left for me. hurried, possibly threatening notes of urgency and bribe. sweat marks, maybe.

...to be continued!...