I remember the first marks I ever made. The feel of a pin scratching into wood window sills. A pattern of triangles, one linking into the next. It was magical. I pushed the pin and a beautiful mark came to life.
I suppose what makes me "an artist" is the "compulsion," Ranier Maria Rilke writes of when he questions the young poet,
"Above all else, ask yourself at your most silent hour of the night, must I write? Dig inside yourself for a deep answer. And if the answer is yes, if it is possible for you to respond to this serious question with a strong and simple I must, then build your life on the basis of this necessity; your life, even at its most indifferent and attenuated, must become a sign and witness for this compulsion."