her classes, gatherings, and clubs on Friday and Saturday nights. The novel, finished, had stayed where it was until her artist love interest found out about the book’s existence from her, then read it and gushed.
“No, you won’t,” he said. “You know why?”
“Why, Sigmund?”
“Because you’re afraid.”
“I’m not afraid. It’s just not ready.”
Zach shook his head. On this topic, he wouldn’t be swayed. This was the area where he was unquestionably the teacher and she the student. “I entered my first art competition at age 12. Do you know how old I was when I drew my first drawing for an art competition?”
“Is this a trick question?”
“I was 7. But even at 7, I was a perfectionist about my work. You think I’m laid back? Not about what I create. If I had to erase something, a piece was ruined because you could still see the mark, and the eraser marred the paper. I had no concept of artistic interpretation, so I thought a drawing was only valid if it looked as much like the thing it was supposed to be as possible. I never let myself go and be free. So, I had impossible standards for a kid — hell, for an adult — and just drew and drew and drew. But finally I got something I liked. It was a drawing of Optimus Prime, from Transformers . And it was perfect , baby. At least to my eye then. Everyone marveled at it. My mom, my dad, even my sister … who as you know is the world’s snarkiest bitch.
“The local police department was sponsoring an art contest, but here’s the thing: It was anonymous. You submitted your piece and they randomized it somehow, gave it a number and tied that number to something else somewhere, so in the end, the winning piece could be matched with the artist. I’m not sure why they did it that way — something having to do with bias, I guess; it was supervised by this really pretentious artsy cock who always made a big deal about art being what it was and nothing more, whatever that meant — but they did, and so I got an idea. Or actually, my mom got an idea. She said I should submit my drawing in the 8-10-year-old category instead of the 6-8. But that scared the shit out of me. As perfect as I thought that drawing was, I suddenly found all sorts of things about it that needed to change. A line was wrong. It needed more shading. But my mom wouldn’t let me touch it, gave me the same basic speech I’m giving you now. It didn’t help, and I got more scared. I told her I didn’t want to submit it. She tried to fight me, but I was a kid and I cried. Eventually, she just gave up.
“Anyway, I felt better once I realized nobody would judge my art — even anonymously, where I’d only ever be ‘found out’ if I won — I relaxed, and didn’t mess with the drawing. I put it into this big portfolio I had and forgot about it.”
Zach drew a breath and smiled at Sam.
“They held that same competition the next year and the next year, and eventually, at 12, I got the balls to enter. I drew a portrait of my dad. It won the 10-15 category. I entered again the next year, and between the two competitions entered another three that I found. Each one was easier than the one before.”
Sam made a noncommittal frown. “Not apples to apples. Maybe Relegated is my Transformers drawing, and I’ll eventually publish something else. Your story just tells me you weren’t happy with something, so you chickened out. Then you eventually got over it and put something better out into the world.”
Zach was already smiling and shaking his head, a step ahead of her. Damn him. He’d probably left the loophole in the story on purpose, pausing so she could use it to hang herself.
“Four years after that first entry, at 16, I was cleaning my room at Mom’s insistence when I found that old portfolio. I remembered what had happened, and was shocked by how good it was, given that I’d been half my age at the time when I’d drawn it. On a whim, I
“No, you won’t,” he said. “You know why?”
“Why, Sigmund?”
“Because you’re afraid.”
“I’m not afraid. It’s just not ready.”
Zach shook his head. On this topic, he wouldn’t be swayed. This was the area where he was unquestionably the teacher and she the student. “I entered my first art competition at age 12. Do you know how old I was when I drew my first drawing for an art competition?”
“Is this a trick question?”
“I was 7. But even at 7, I was a perfectionist about my work. You think I’m laid back? Not about what I create. If I had to erase something, a piece was ruined because you could still see the mark, and the eraser marred the paper. I had no concept of artistic interpretation, so I thought a drawing was only valid if it looked as much like the thing it was supposed to be as possible. I never let myself go and be free. So, I had impossible standards for a kid — hell, for an adult — and just drew and drew and drew. But finally I got something I liked. It was a drawing of Optimus Prime, from Transformers . And it was perfect , baby. At least to my eye then. Everyone marveled at it. My mom, my dad, even my sister … who as you know is the world’s snarkiest bitch.
“The local police department was sponsoring an art contest, but here’s the thing: It was anonymous. You submitted your piece and they randomized it somehow, gave it a number and tied that number to something else somewhere, so in the end, the winning piece could be matched with the artist. I’m not sure why they did it that way — something having to do with bias, I guess; it was supervised by this really pretentious artsy cock who always made a big deal about art being what it was and nothing more, whatever that meant — but they did, and so I got an idea. Or actually, my mom got an idea. She said I should submit my drawing in the 8-10-year-old category instead of the 6-8. But that scared the shit out of me. As perfect as I thought that drawing was, I suddenly found all sorts of things about it that needed to change. A line was wrong. It needed more shading. But my mom wouldn’t let me touch it, gave me the same basic speech I’m giving you now. It didn’t help, and I got more scared. I told her I didn’t want to submit it. She tried to fight me, but I was a kid and I cried. Eventually, she just gave up.
“Anyway, I felt better once I realized nobody would judge my art — even anonymously, where I’d only ever be ‘found out’ if I won — I relaxed, and didn’t mess with the drawing. I put it into this big portfolio I had and forgot about it.”
Zach drew a breath and smiled at Sam.
“They held that same competition the next year and the next year, and eventually, at 12, I got the balls to enter. I drew a portrait of my dad. It won the 10-15 category. I entered again the next year, and between the two competitions entered another three that I found. Each one was easier than the one before.”
Sam made a noncommittal frown. “Not apples to apples. Maybe Relegated is my Transformers drawing, and I’ll eventually publish something else. Your story just tells me you weren’t happy with something, so you chickened out. Then you eventually got over it and put something better out into the world.”
Zach was already smiling and shaking his head, a step ahead of her. Damn him. He’d probably left the loophole in the story on purpose, pausing so she could use it to hang herself.
“Four years after that first entry, at 16, I was cleaning my room at Mom’s insistence when I found that old portfolio. I remembered what had happened, and was shocked by how good it was, given that I’d been half my age at the time when I’d drawn it. On a whim, I
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