Doodles

An inadvertent comment from a friend enlightened me to the nature of what I'm doing every day as I journal, blog, or write short stories: doodling. It was a floundering for words that I found I appreciated more and more as I rolled it over my palate:
1. to scribble or draw aimlessly
2. (Music, other) to play or improvise idly
I don't necessarily believe this is my precise aim, but it intimates the carefree yet incessant aspect of my practice. It isn't that I don't intricately design fancier, complete pieces, or that these doodles are completely without merit as works, but that they are not, from the onset, meant to be anything more than the aimless scribbling of words idly improvised.
I started writing, with motivation, about four years ago, and am still in the infantile stages of writing capacity. I fully intended, from the beginning of this journey, to take at least ten years of study and practice. And though I've come a ways, I'm wondering where I'll even be after my ten years are spent. Is there any time I'll ever be ready, or completely prepared? I'm no Steinbeck, Dostoevsky, Mary Oliver, Gaiman, Tolkein, Eliot etc. I'm merely he who loves to read and the way the words sing as they prance across the page, or saunter or slide.
So I'm a doodler, doodle-dee-doo, and here are my drawings, sketchy though they be.