When I was a kid and we'd go up in pairs in the summertime to spend 2 weeks with grandmom and grandpop, when grandmom's soaps came on ("Like sands through the hourglass..."), with their provocative subject-matter, grandmom would say, "okay, time to cut and color!" and she'd put out all these crayons and scissors and colored construction paper in the dining room (well away from the living room) and I'd trace shapes and cut-out green Incredible Hulks with penciled-on abs and crappy-looking brown Millennium Falcons and such.
In such humble ways are great artists made.
I could totally hear the plot developments from the other room, though. Sometimes the subtle echoes of that angst might creep into my work. I had no idea of the implications of what was being discussed, of course - but there was no mistaking the drama.
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