
I admit to using AI art programs to help me create artwork. But I am not letting AI generate drawings for me. I use AI to add effects and details that my arthritic hands can no longer create. I have been drawing blue-skinned Nebulons for forty years. This picture is my drawing even though the AI finished it (except for the mouth and nose, which I had to redraw to finish this.) In fact, I drew and redrew this particular picture about ten times, something I can do digitally that ink and colored pencil on paper doesn’t allow me to do. One shot is all you get at the process the old way of doing it, unless you spend hours pixel editing with Photoshop. So, I am finished apologizing for the shortcuts I have been taking to make art since I took up digital tools. I get to call myself an artist no matter how offended other artists are becoming with the use of the AI crutches I take advantage of.
I might point out that whatever copyright violations are being done by AI art programs, that is not what I am doing. I am using digital art tools and an AI app that I am feeding my own artwork into. And the corrective decisions are made by me. I am drawing well more than 90 percent of the drawings myself.

But I don’t know why I keep feeling like I have to defend what I am doing. I have been drawing and redrawing and doing art for at least 62 years. And I have never made any substantial amounts of money for anything creative I have done outside of a classroom where I was the teacher.
Why do I worry about my own making of art anyway? I am nobody. Nobody will ever hang any of my work in a gallery. I have never been a commercial artist. I have only been paid a pittance for published cartoons a few times, and royalties for novels and essays a few times more. It never bothered me when I was teaching. I got the feedback I needed from students as I showed them the processes and techniques of being both a good reader and a good writer. I knew from them that my writing abilities were good and were teachable. I had student writers who won writing contests. I took on State tests and achieved writing scores for entire grade levels that were better than the English departments of the small towns around ours. I got real praise from more than one superintendent. I was an English department head and a Gifted Program coordinator. If I ever was somebody, it was then… doing that.

They told me in writing classes at both Iowa State and the University of Iowa that I would probably one day be a published author, and that I was a talented writer with considerable skill. Well, I’m a self-published author now. One that practically nobody reads. But the ones that do read my books seem mostly to like them, or hate them for spurious reasons in two cases. And I guess that is good enough. Good writers in the past have been ignored until after they were gone. I may remain ignored forever. But the important thing is that my art and my writing exist. For now. And maybe in people’s memories too for a while after that. Art needs to exist for its own sake, Its own secret purposes. And it was only my place to create them, not follow them to their ultimate purpose.
Whatever. I am nobody. And that’s okay. Nobody is really more than that in the long run.














































The Art of Being Mickey
I have published my eighth novel in the last six years. Sure, it is through mostly self-publishing of novels that no one but me has ever read. Catch a Falling Star and Snow Babies both had a professional editor, one who had worked for Harcourt and one who worked for PDMI. Magical Miss Morgan has had a proofreader who made numerous stupid-mistake errors that I had to change back to the original meticulously by hand. But all three of those novels won an award or were finalists in a young adult novel contest. I do have reason to believe I am a competent writer and better even then some who have achieved commercial success.
But what is the real reason that I am so intent on producing the maximum amount of creative work possible in this decade? Well, to be coldly objective, I am a diabetic who cannot currently afford insulin. I have been betrayed by the for-profit healthcare system that treats me as a source of unending profit. I am like a laying hen in the chicken house, giving my eggs of effort away to a farmer who means to eat my very children if time and circumstance allows. I am the victim of six incurable diseases and conditions that I got most likely as a result of exposure to toxic farm chemicals in the early 70’s. I am also a cancer survivor from a malignant melanoma in 1983, and for three years now I have not been able to get the preventative cancer tests I am supposed to be receiving every year for the rest of my life. My prostate could very well be cancerous as I write this. If that is so, it will kill me unawares, because I don’t even want to know about having a disease I can’t possibly afford to fight all over again.’
So, the basic reason I am going through the most productive and creative period of my entire life is because I have a great rage to create before I die and I could be dying as soon as tonight. All of the countless stories in my head clamoring to be written down before it is too late cry out to me desperately for my immediate attention.
I will, then, continue to write stories and draw cartoons and other Paffoonies for as long as I am still able, and possibly even afterward. I have, after all, threatened repeatedly to become a ghostwriter after I die. And, yes, I understand when you scream at my essay that that is not what a ghostwriter is. But if a woman can channel the ghost of Franz Schubert and finish his unfinished symphony…(https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rosemary_Brown_(spiritualist))
—then I should also be able to tell my stories from beyond the grave. I have been percolating them in my head and writing and drawing them in whole or in part since 1974. I have too much time and too many daydreams wrapped up in them to let it all just evaporate into the ether. In summation, I am claiming stupidly that my novels, crack-brained and wacky as they are, are somehow destined to exist, either because of me or in spite of me. So just be happy that I write what I write, for there is an art to being Mickey, and I am the one artist and writer who is the best Mickey possible if truly there ever was a real Mickey.
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