Drawing was no effort for him. It was why he was created, after all.
And it didn't take gazing upon his pen-tipped fingers to know that. All he needed to see was a piece of paper; any old paper. It those fingers hadn't touched it while dripping in ink, it looked too clean, and he wouldn't imagine what it'd look like if it wasn't so clean. And he'd see the paper in front of him with jagged lines and circles covering it.
All that was left was to trace his mind.
(That, and resist looking at any of 1's books. It hadn't taken long to have it beat into him by 8 that his mind wasn't welcome everywhere.)