After a few weeks of drawing on the subway, I was hooked. I would step on the train, reach for my sketchbook, uncap my pen, and let my eyes wander over the crowd. It was my favorite part of the day.

But things soon changed from pure joy to a mix of emotions. I loved how I felt while drawing, but when I stopped to look at what I had drawn, I didn’t feel so great. I thought the only worthwhile way to re-create the world was to do it with perfect fidelity, and I was disappointed in my wobbly lines and scratchy sketches.

One day I had an epiphany, which prompted me to say to myself: You were an art history major, right? So, you know art isn’t about perfectly re-creating what you see. We celebrate Da Vinci, Picasso, and Van Gogh because they re-created the world as they saw it. If you do the same, aren’t you following in the footsteps of the greatest artists?

From that moment on, I decided that maybe I was the next Picasso. Instead of stopping, I started focusing on expressing a view of the world as I saw it. Draw what you see and feel, and your own style will naturally develop.

You might not be the next Picasso (or maybe you are!), but what’s the worst that could happen if you treat your efforts—and yourself—as if you are?

There are a million stories being told in any given moment. Your job is to listen with your eyes and tell those stories using lines of ink.

Curiosity is key to finding and telling good stories. Curiosity breeds empathy, and empathy is how we imagine the lives and stories happening outside of our own.

Overlook the obvious and bring the background into the foreground: the cactus that’s moved with you to every new home or the barista at your local coffee shop—these are stories waiting to be told.

Look for small details that suggest a bigger story. In writing, this is called synecdoche, when a part is used to represent the whole, like calling a businessman a suit. This concept works just as well when you’re drawing.

Notice how your emotions affect the stories and details you’re drawn to. When you’re feeling sad, you might draw the tree outside your window because of the way its branches droop. On a happier day, you might draw the same tree, focusing instead on the cheerful squirrel resting in those same branches.

Iris, as I like to call her, is one of my favorite people I’ve never met. I saw her one night, sitting in a French café on the Upper East Side. She was eating alone at a table for two, facing into the restaurant so she could watch the comings and goings of waiters and patrons alike. We briefly locked eyes as I scanned the restaurant. I, too, was dining alone, and instead of catching my own reflection in the mirrored wall, I saw Iris seated across from me.

She was striking: gray hair piled high on top of her head and giant glasses taking up most of her delicate and slightly dour face. At first glance, she could have been dismissed as a sort of sad and perhaps lonely woman, but upon closer inspection, there was a tiny curl at the edge of her lips, a secret satisfied smile. I noticed the collection of beaded necklaces strung around her neck and wondered if she had collected them on exotic travels to visit faraway lovers. A few wisps of hair escaped from her careful updo. I imagined her swiping at them distractedly as she cooed to pastel colored parakeets that surely lived with her in a giant apartment filled with art, books, and secrets.

Everyone who sees my drawing of Iris has a strong response to her. I tried to capture the details about her, both obvious and subtle, that communicate who she is—or who she might be.

Sometimes a story is as simple as sharing a feeling, and your drawing becomes a short story where the viewer reads between the lines to find the meaning.

It was late spring, and New York City blooms like a flower. Apartment windows are thrown open like blossoming buds and spring wardrobes are paraded on the streets. Ankles are exposed for the first time in months, and sturdy boots are replaced with kitten heels and stilettos.

On a particularly beautiful evening, I met up with a friend for dinner outside and I noticed the woman next to me. She was sitting on a high bar stool, her legs crossed at the knees and a leopard print slingback shoe balanced precariously on the end of her toe. Above the table, she had one hand wrapped around a wine glass and the other one tucked under her chin as she leaned closer to her date. The moment was both precarious and sure, relaxed and engaged—a joyful, frivolous, flirtatious shoe that might drop at any moment.

I could have drawn the whole scene, but the sensation of it was totally expressed by the casual way she crossed her legs and her stylish, playful shoes. I know that each viewer will see this drawing differently, but I think they’ll find something familiar in what this small detail evokes.

Each of your drawings contains three stories: your story, the story created by the viewer, and the story of the subject. A perfect example is this drawing of a fashionable lady zipping along on a scooter, made while I was on vacation in Paris.

My Story: This is my memory of sitting in a café, sipping cappuccinos and eating croissants, and watching Paris pass by. This chic woman, with her tiny purse, tall heels, and fancy dress, was quintessentially Parisian and a distillation of my experience in that moment.

The Viewer’s Story: Because I didn’t draw the details of the city street, the viewer might imagine another story altogether. Perhaps it’s about the most fashionable person in Paris, Idaho. Perhaps it’s about themselves riding down the street, feeling the wind and the sun.

The Story of your Subject: There is the real story of this Parisian woman, which we may never know, but upon which we can expand and imagine forever.

These three stories form an important relationship with you at the center. The drawings you make become the stories you tell about your own world. No one else can do that better than you.