Drawing The Line Book Novels & Stories

Clean pages waiting for something. I had not drawn since before my voice was gone. Before my father changed. Before Grace turned the house into poison. My fingers almost shook…He stood and walked to the window, giving me space. That surprised me more than the gift. I opened the first page and picked a pencil. At first nothing came. My hand felt stiff. Then slowly, I began. Lines…. Shapes... Water…. Trees. The lake outside. Minutes passed in silence. Real silence. Not heavy silence. Not fearful silence…When I forgot myself, drawing always came easy.

He was reading to them by the light of the monitoring machines, the children's book open in his hands, his face in the low light of the unit, the specific profile of someone who was entirely present in what he was doing and had forgotten that the room contained anything other than the two small people he was reading to. I had taken out my sketchbook and drawn him. Not with the medical illustrator's precision, not a study. Just the quick honest lines of someone drawing what was in front of them because it was in front of them and deserved to be kept. The profile, the book, the low monitoring light, the quality of his attention. It had taken perhaps eight minutes. It was one of the best things

Simple and complex at the same time. Back in my room, I sat at my desk. The black-covered notebook was already open, a pencil beside it. I looked at the blank page for a few seconds and, without thinking too much, began to draw. The lines appeared almost by themselves. First, a feminine gaze, with long eyelashes. Then, the outline of a smiling mouth. My fingers kept moving, adding subtle details — a scarf over her shoulders, a book in her hands. It wasn't Giulia. Not exactly. But somehow, it seemed to have something of her in it.

Someone was watching. And whoever it was had just drawn the first real line.

’ ‘Thank you Mama. As soon as I put Mallory to sleep I switch the light back on. I pull a sketch book and pencil from the study table. I turned to a blank page of the sketch book. I hold a HB pencil on my right hand. I grip the smooth body of the blue pencil and positioned my fingers with just right distance from the very tip of the pencil. The pencil is stuck between my middle finger at the bottom, index finger at the middle and thumb on top of it. I lightly grasp the pencil and carefully begin to draw a line. I started to sketch a pair of eyebrows with moderate shading followed by the eyes.

I leaned closer, anticipation buzzing in my veins— Only to freeze. Books. Shelves and shelves of them, stretching from top to bottom. Old ones. Ancient-looking, with worn spines and faded gold lettering. Dusty, but organized with meticulous care. My shoulders slumped. “Seriously?” I muttered. Why warn me off if this was all there was? Then I saw it. A small, folded piece of white paper resting innocently among the books. My heart kicked. I snatched it up and unfolded it— And rage hit me full-force.

I want to hear everything. Then I opened my laptop, cursor blinking against the white screen, and started a new document. The title came easily this time. “Crossing the Line: When Love and Ambition Learn to Breathe Together.” I wrote the first line slowly, smiling to myself. Some stories don’t end when you close the chapter. They just learn how to keep going. That night, when Ethan’s face filled my screen — tired but smiling — I realized it wasn’t the distance that defined us anymore. It was the choice to keep showing up.

I sat there for a long moment, pencil hovering, my heart beating faster than it should have. Just draw something, I told myself. Anything. A line. A shape. It doesn’t have to be good. I touched the pencil to the paper. The first line was tentative—a soft curve, barely there. I didn’t know what I was drawing. I wasn’t planning. I just let my hand move, following something instinctive, something buried. The curve became a jawline. My breath caught. No, I thought. Not her. Draw something else. But my hand didn’t listen. The pencil kept moving, adding another line, then another. A shoulder. The slope of a neck. The suggestion of hair falling across a forehead.

“Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen. Excellent book.” He sits down and begins reading. The first picture I draw is a portrait of uncle Owen’s sister with a wolf howling at the edge of a cliff at a full moon in the background. I make one for his father too. I plan to give them these at the funeral. I do similar ones of Michael to give to Carrie and one for Zuri but with a lion for the family.