The Writer Who Sketches

          Back in March, my mother-in-law got word of an art contest, hosted by a local merchant. She encouraged me to sign up. Actually, she told my wife, “Sam needs to enter this.” It was more ultimatum than encouragement. Bless her heart.

          Well, I am by no means a professional artist. I like fiddling with art supplies. Once, I even considered a career as an illustrator after my boss at the Native American casino where I was marketing director let me design a few advertisements. But I found that I enjoyed writing fiction more.

          Besides, I had not entered an art contest since I was six years old.  (Although that entry did win me a Happy Meal.)

          The only rules were that it had to be a sketch (no Photoshop) and it had to be of ‘nature’.  My entry is below. I always liked bridges and those gnarly oaks that look like tortured souls. It is graphite on rough tooth sketching paper. I used four pencils: 4HB, HB, 2B, and 4B.

          And . . . well, . . . my sketch won.  Or at least it ranked as one of the winners. The sticky note that came back with it said, ‘Adult Winner #2.’

          This time the prize was $20, which made me seriously consider enduring the sidelong glances when a 43-year-old man ordered a Happy Meal and nothing else.

          “Is that To Go, sir?”

          “Nope!” Then, I would hold up my sketch and shout, “Booyah!”