New Years Revolutions

The unholy rebels in my soul have risen up to conquer the ruling procrastination regime of my brain. Death to the ivory tower eggheads! Up with productivity! Long live hope and change! Viva la revolucion!

Of course, such battles are long, bloody affairs with many casualties. (Sanity? First to go.) But we must fight for what is right and good! It hurts, but it's a good kind of hurt.

So now it's time for me to make some OFFICIAL resolutions for the new year. This is the day of optimism, and I intend to ride it! Here we go, with them in no particular order.

- I will keep Precocious going strong! This is intentionally open to interpretation, as changes may be in store. I want to keep going with the current format as long as I can, but I may have to scale things back slightly to fit in all these other resolutions. Don't panic yet! I'm just being cautious here. Ideally things remain as awesome as they are now.

- I will get my lazy butt into grad school. This one is major, as I've dilly-dallied far too long now. Granted, I've had my reasons, with all the chaos going on in my family. It's very hard for me to leave right now, but I've given myself over for two years now. I'm going to be in my 30's before I start school again no matter what, but 30 is way better than 31! (I'm also desperately in need of a change in venue.)

- I will find a way to start making money from my cartooning. This means designing shirts and setting up a store. I want to create a Precocious book as well, but that may have to wait until I'm in grad school. I should set up an shop, on etsy or somewhere, where I can sell prints and paintings. My birthday gift to myself should be a quality printer, which can enable me to create prints and such to sell! On the website side, I have to consider ditching Project Wonderful for a more paying ad service. I like PW because it helps other comics, but I'm not making close to what I could with my readership and pageviews. I should also start attending conventions to learn how I can one day *successfully* attend them as a vendor.

- I will do better to enhance my presence in the comic community. My horrid antisocial tendency might doom me, but I want to make myself known. This involves posting more on message boards, READING all those webcomics sites that I've been ignoring and becoming somewhat likable on twitter. I should reach out to other cartoonists and build more friendships. Once people know me, attending conventions becomes a little less intimidating!

- I will finish my Little Anxieties painting series. This can take all year, but I want it done. (Commissioned paintings do come first, after all!) If I get it done, I can start looking for galleries to display the series. (Getting into grad school might help me here!)

- I will work on improving and expanding my art skills. I want to learn how to use watercolors, so I can be like Bill Watterson! Ink and watercolor Precocious paintings make more sense than forcing acrylics to work like drawing. (Drawback: Watercolors and ink drawings do require me to mat them.) I also want to work on drawing furry. As I wrote a few days ago, I never set out to be a furry artist, but the fans sure seem to wish I was! This isn't just me giving in to pressure, it can potentially open up new illustration venues without starting from scratch and learning to draw comic humans. Human or furry, I must re-learn non-cartoony anatomy drawing. That would help me immensely, and likely make Precocious' drawing more dynamic.

- Like everyone else in history, I want to drop at least 10lbs. The stress from family crisis after crisis, combined with sedentary behavior has made me plump. I know I'm not fat, but any extra weight on my scant frame looks bad! I'd love to start exercising again, focusing on cardio, but I'll settle for better eating/living habits. When I visit the grandparents, I need to have more willpower - everything here is drenched in butter! If I have to start bringing my own snacks here, then so be it.

- I want to end this year better than how I started it. As you can see from these resolutions, many tie into each other. Getting into grad school gets me into a better environment, which enables my art skill-building and improves my health. Improved art and spirits help me find the energy to keep Precocious going AND do the extra work to get the store going and socialize. Becoming more social in the comic community gets me more readers and earns me invites to conventions, where I can make more bonds and potentially money! One good change encourages another.

So there we are. Let's check back in a year to see how I did. Heck, let's check back in two weeks, when grad school applications are due. (Good lord, I'm terrified!) My first test, of course, is probably my hardest one. Wish me luck!

Enough guppies can eat a whale, right?

Look, it's been documented that I'm ADHD, like FOR REALS. It's not that fun, because concentration is really kinda important in getting work done. Over the past few days, I have been hard core scrambled for some reason, bouncing between project after project and taking nibble after nibble. The result: LOTS OF UNFINISHED PROJECTS! Booyah!

In theory, if I keep going around, thinks will start getting done. Copper Road is now sketched and ready for inking. Saturday's strip is ready to ink as well. Sunday's? I'm FUCKED. Got nothing for that yet. Next weeks' strips have been lettered, so it's time for some (rather extensive) sketching. Stupid elaborate compositions. Web design is in the corner with Sunday's potential strip and my pride. I'll work on that stuff LATER.

Between all this chaos, I've been painting. It's better than sitting around in a daze or playing video games. I'm gonna pay with this EVEN MORE because I'm still not satisfied, but it is progressing. Enjoy!

Indecision

I have a lot of obligations right now. I'm down to wire every day in producing Precocious. I've fallen behind in getting my commission painting done. I'm about a WEEK behind in replying to email. I've got to sketch some more fun stuff for Rune Master. Ack!

Alright, fine, one thing at a time. I'll tackle obligations as they arrive, and hope the emailers don't hate me for the delay. For now, enjoy this "I don't know what to draw next!" doodle.

I could use a burst of inspiration, but I'll settle for pressured productivity.

Henry Darger

For those not in the know, Henry Darger is one of the great outsider artists. He was this possibly-schizo hermit-esque guy who lived a seemingly unspectacular life. Only after his death, when his landlord was cleaning out his apartment, did they discover he had written and illustrated a crazy-brilliant (by reports; I haven't read it) story about saving abused children.

While being an "outsider" artist will get him remembered in history, it is also what restrained him. I have to wonder what he could have created if he was able to properly capitalize on his talent. He was clearly talented, yet untrained in basic things like perspective and anatomy. Maybe it might not have made him so interesting in the eyes of history, but post-mortum fame, recognition and acceptance is sorta lost on a dead man. It's better than nothing, but the man still went through life with no recognition.

Now the the "new" tag has left my comic on The Belfry, a major webcomics list, I am watching my hit count crash to earth. Yesterday, I even lost a subscriber. One of the 30 people reading my strip decided I wasn't worth the effort. It shouldn't hit me that hard, as my strip is not flavored for mass-consumtion - even though I do present it as such in hopes the masses come around - but I needed to get all I could from that "new" tag. Now I have to network. I have to promote myself. I have to advertise. I have to contact other artists for guidence and potential friendship.

I don't know if I can. I fear my brain has gone from "delightfully wacky" to "crippled by insanity." I don't have any strength left in me to go beyond myself, and I don't see any help coming ever in my current situation. All I can do for the moment is lock myself in my room and work on my strip. It's one of the thousands of stories in my head, but it's one that has concrete results. It's the best I can do to Darger things. Every other story will be lost unless I start writing them down. While I don't plan on dying, uh, ever (I can rest when all my enemies are dead, and then only after a lenghthy victory dance) if something should happen, as it stands people will have forgotten me before my body was cold.

Promotion for me is a much slower process than it is for sane people. It's been a month now and I've only done two things to promote the strip. Over time, I will slowly do more. Many, many opportunities will pass me by, but I might eventually grab a few. With some luck, people will stumble upon my site and my readership will grow to the, uh, dozens. That's if I'm actually good.

Precocious is interesting because it's a twisted take on what happens if brilliant children do receive the encouragement and support (both social and parental) they need. A recent strip I drew featured Sky Et lamenting Tiffany's enlightenment taking a rather inconvinient turn. The true potential of the wrong person is a terrible thing to behold. Just imagine what I would be like if I was a functional human being...

Like the Bush administration and natural resources

It took quite a while to make this sketch. Why? I kept shading to make Roddy's fur appropriately dark. See, the all-black Roddy was fun in pencil because I could make him gray and still have the freedom to give him the expressions he deserves. Everyone knew he was meant to be black, so everybody wins! Now, he's been anti-Jolsoned. Part of him is white! If I make his remaining black parts gray, it just looks like gray. He looks like a feline Max, which is inappropriate, creepy and somewhat unintentionally hilarious if you want to make a "difference between dogs and cats" joke.

So now I have blackify Roddy's blackness. And if I go too far in one place, that means I have to darken the rest to make it look right. As I kept going, the thoughts begin to nip at me... I'm wasting my pencil lead! If I run out, I have to buy more! Poor Roddy, of course he's the one I'm drawing when I contemplate if it's worth finishing the drawing just in case I'll face a minor inconvinience like procuring more easily-obtainable lead.

Now, pencil lead is one thing I happen to have a lot of at this point. Thanks to my comic push, I doing far more work than sketching, so those supplies are holding up well. It's every *other* art suply that is freaking me out. Who knew that being an active artist meant buring through supplies so fast? In the past few weeks, I've had to restock on comic templates, India ink, the "no-copy" blue pencil lead and the very precious mechanical pencil erases. There was a point where I thought what I had was an inexhaustable supply. I bought enough for FOUR MONTHS! Well, my intro story was two months of work, the comic has been up almost a month and I am a month ahead in strips. Lookee there!

Unlike some people (such as the guy upstairs who got kicked out of a bar last night because he was too wasted and caused a disturbance - and spent today on the phone happily declaring that everyone he offended should just get over it) I hate spending more money that I'm taking in. This is a problem when one is without a (paying) job. I worked my butt off enough previously to build up some "winter fat" savings I could live off while I was doing my artist thing... but I've been doing that longer than anticipated. I still have plenty of savings to make the purchases I need - which is good, since I continue to make those purchases - but nowadays each purchase comes with feelings of guilt.

Let's not forget the majority of my art supplies were taken from my dead dad's stash. I've had to restock, of course, but the supplies I inherited *did* help me choose my direction as an artist. I have no desire to work with high-end art supplies. For me, the investment does not justify the result unless I know I'll be selling the work. I make due cobbling the together the few supplies I have. If I know my supplies are dwindling, I tend to hold back too much - which means I'm handicapping myself. If left to my own devices, I will do something like switch my last remaining eraser between each pencil I'm using until some merciful soul takes me out to buy more. (Thanks, Andrew!) When I do finally restock, I buy in bulk. Not only does it often bring a discount, but it allows me to toss aside my worry.

The current comic successes are partially due to me feeling free enough to experiment again. There were times when I impulsively grabbed a template and just started drawing. Shockingly enough, those experiments all ended up becoming actual strips, so I get double pride from that! Still, if they had failed, it was OK to put them aside and move on. Feeling secure in resources means such things are learning experiences, as opposed to costly mistakes. It would likely benefit me if I put more of an effort into consuming supplies with reckless abandon (hence the Bush administration joke in the title) because I will learn and grow (here's where the Bush analogy breaks down, as they never learn) - but I'm still cognizant of a future when supplies will dwindle once more, so I guess I'm still a bit too *cough* conservative here.

Sir, I exist!

"A man said to the universe: "Sir, I exist!" "However," replied the universe, "The fact has not created in me a sense of obligation." - Stephen Crane

You know, if I ever left my room or got remotely sociable, I'd be getting somewhere. Instead, I just have to focus on making the best product I can - so when people do accidentally stumble upon the site, there's plenty of stimulation. Oh, hopeful idealism - maybe if I'm worthy *someone* will care. I'm a poor, damaged soul here! Reaching out to the vast, uncaring would is hard enough for normal people - and I have a broken brain actively sabotaging me! Publicizin' is hard werk. Like Prezidentin'!

I suck at reaching out to people, and I apologize for that. Slowly, slowly I will learn how to function. Hey, when I do learn how to act like an unbroken person, I will have lots to work with. Today I went through my archives and created all new banners for the Precocious website. As I don't have any way of tracking usage (I suck at the internet) I will assume no one is actually using the banners. Why the heck would they? Who cares about the awkward new kid in school? Even the most sugary new-kid-at-school fiction involves a handful of kind people emerging from a large ocean of indifference. In real life, especially on the internet, the ratio of nice-to-indifferent is way worse.

Still, the time will come! Banners will be exchanged! Ads will be placed! Readership will slowly grow? Maybe.

My poor neglected sketchbook

As noted several times before, when I'm doing productive work I am usually doing sketch stuff. For fine art, sharing progress is wonderful and encouraged. For comics, posting a punchline because I like the drawing is not a bright thing to do. It's a daily. You'll SEE it shortly. Doubling up either makes you ignore the blog or ignore the comic. (If you weren't ignoring me already. Yeah, I am looking at you ALMOST EVERYONE IN THE UNIVERSE!) Also, I had just done that crime in the post below. I had to force myself to sit down today and actually use my sketchbook. I tried to play around, but nothing was happening. So I had to do it... CONCEPT ART FOR AN UPCOMING STORYLINE! It's not actual comic context, but rather a chilling view of things to come! Spoiler alert: Max is having a birthday party.

I'm about to start working on that story, which will start on the 26th. The current goal is to finish two comics a day. If I can do that, a nice sized buffer will build up - I'm already a week ahead - which may allow me to relax and stop this manic obsession thing. One of these days I have to get back to the fine arts. It's like living in a house stocked with sweets and nothing more. Just because you love to eat everything available doesn't mean you don't start craving savory delicacies instead.

The power of negative thinking!

Today I woke up with the plan to keep with the publicizing effort going. So far I've put the strip on a few lists... and hoped for divine intervention! I have to keep submitting the strip to portal sites, start socializing on message boards and - this is the scariest - write to web cartoonists I adore and see if I can get some advice/assistance. I feel like such a tool doing that, and I have no clue what to say. I'd likely send the email equivalent of "Duuuurrrrrrrrrr," and make a fool of myself.

Suddenly, playing around with color isn't so bad! That's just tedious. Tedious > Awkward!

After my bold declaration of not making Sunday strips, with the bold edit of not having a strip for THIS Sunday... I will have the strip ready for Sunday after all. Having lost complete control of myself, I went ahead an colorized Monday's strip as well. Color strips *do* look spiffy! Also, they mean strip creation takes twice as long. Also, if I colorize strips, I have to save each original in the hi-res form in case I'm ever cool enough to justify a published collection. Also, color strips make publishing costs go way up. Also, I am not getting paid for this. See, if that last issue is taken care of, all the others go away.

Postpartum Depression

After one day of the most depressing glory basking ever, I am back at work on strips and thinking about the future. It's been hard, since I'm still very much suffering from the letdown.

It's well documented that my deadly sin is pride, and one aspect of that is my desire to always appear perfect. Putting out anything except the best gives me the dagger-dancing-in-the-stomach feeling. It's why I gave up on cartooning so many times over my life. Obviously, I got over myself enough to put my strip, in all its rookie glory, out there for everyone to see - but I'm feeling some narcissistic aftershocks right now.

I have no idea if anything I've made is funny. Being so close to the craft, all I can see are the technical back stories to each strip. Pride can quickly turn to disappointment if I start to dwell. Rationally, I realize cartooning is a process with its own standard and logic. Only time, practice and research will bring improvement. Emotionally, the perfectionist in me screams every time a face doesn't convey the expression I need or the dialog is not arranged/written in a way to preserve the proper timing for a joke. I am way too close to the work, so I need someone unattached to give me proper feedback. Too bad only those obligated to read the strip have done so at this point. *Sigh*

Ahh, but that's why we have pilot episodes. They show potential, even when the craft is still shaky. I do believe I have the makings of something good, even if I'm a few life lessons short of producing such work. Re-reading the pilot, what can I change to improve myself?

The big thing for me is LETTING GO of the details. I want to show I have the entire world planned and mapped, but there's no reason to bog down strips with it. My goal was to use the inevitable clunkiness of the pilot to get across basic information so I never have to reference it again. Of course, when new strips deal with those specific elements I have to re-introduce them anyway. D'oh. I should focus on telling a good story and let the details be inferred. It's hard for me, since I am so detail-oriented. My characters, having been created by me, tend to speak in my voice. They are rambling bores!

Another weakness with writing caused by my personality is the tendency to write as if the works will be spoken. The dialog in a comic strip is READ, so the snappy timing that makes a strip funny in my head is lost in translation. Yes, there are little touches a cartoonist can add to indicate how dialog should be read, but I am so weak on penmenship that legibility is still my main focus.

Character-wise, I have a lot of changes that need to be made. Proportions are still wildly inconsistant, and I don't see that settling down for a long time. Only repitition will cure that. Until then, I am going to keep misjuding the height of my characters and be forced to stretch them so their feet don't appear in-panel. A lot of strips got ruined when I tried to expand or shrink characters to fit, making them look very rough and wrong.

Character details also need to be reevaluated. Roddy was the first, and most significant, change, but I can see many tweaks that need to be made. Both Tiffany and Suzette suffer for "too many quirks" syndrome, which can look awful if not handled correctly. I'm not sure what needs to be done to clean that mess up at this point. My handling of short-sleeve shirts is still abysmal, and every character sporting one suffers for it. As simple as it should be, managing the strips on Jacob's shirts thwarted me time and again. I should also begin thinking about the medium shading that appears on Bud, Tiffany, Suzette, Max, etc. By the end of the pilot, I learned to use tech pens of smaller width to make the lines, because the equal weight caused conflicts with outlines. Another approach might be in adopting standard shading swatches and dropping them in via Photoshop. As that requires spending some money, I'll put it off for now.

The task now is to sit back and DO THE STRIPS, even if I know they are somewhat weak. The best instruction for cartooning is experience. I can talk a great cartooning game with my knowledge of the medium, but that means nothing if I never develop my skill through execution.

My pride wants me to go into hiding again; to let a few more storylines build up before I start trying to get publicity. I can't do that. I just have to press forward and hope my archive shows progress and potential. I need people to care about me and about the strip. Without help from others, all the feedback I get is from my personal demons. Those guys are assholes. It's sad and needy to talk like this, but if I'm the only person emotionally invested in this project, that's a good sign that the project is a failure. At this point I'll take the moral support from those obligated to be kind to me. Something. Anything. I understand that my mom saying I'm cool does not make it so, but I could *so* use a placebo effect right now.

Finally, a holiday I can support!

Thanksgiving time! This may be my favorite of all holidays. If I was on schedule with my strip and doing regular updates, this would have turned into a strip. Since I'm over four months behind at this point, the idea is reduced to a graphic novel-ish sketch. Tiffany is living the fantasy, even I prefer light meat over dark. Hey, cartoonists are legally obligated to draw feasting characters holding a drumstick. It's in the Constitution. Go check! The James Bond-ish joke here was stolen from a Fark headline. I wish I could claim it as my own, but alas...


Ok, so the whole being thankful thing is lost one me (in all likeliness, there will be a sad and bitter post tomorrow on this subject) but Thanksgiving has so much for me to love! Football all day? Check. Large quantities of my favorite foods? Check. Being able to tune out annoying family conversations due to football and/or food-induced coma? YEEHAW! Not *needing* to avoid conversation? 'Ello, we have a new twist!

Thanksgiving for me has traditionally been spent with my mother's side of the family. They are normals, which just seems wrong. Smart, well-adjusted and successful people in my family? WHERE ARE THE CRIPPLING MENTAL PROBLEMS AND TRAGICALLY COMPELLING STORIES? Conversation can be difficult.

Them: "I just ran a marathon and went to a big party."
Me: "I spent the last week hiding in the dark while clawing at the bugs underneath my skin."

In addition to showing me how live can be lived if a talented genius was sane, that side of the family is great because they are as obsessed with sports as I am. It doesn't matter if we have no rooting interest - although we will all unite to root against the fucking Cowboys - it opens the door for sports blather in all its delicious glory. Seriously, it's hard to find an intellectual peer who is not above rooting for morons playing games that focus on, ugh, PHYSICAL prowess. I love a chance to be a sports geek. (Note for nerds who hate athletes but want to love the game: Since football uniforms are so padded, you can imagine the players as robots instead of asshole jocks.)

So normally Thanksgiving with mom's folks works because it is the one time I can blend in. The problem is the TRAVEL. Three hours and an overnight stay? That's lost of *extra* conversation without the ability to hide behind food and sport. C'mon, family, let's admit it: We'd all be terrified to learn too much about each other. My brain would scare you, as my brother's metro brain would scare me.

Dad's side of the family is my side. We're all crazy jerks, but in the same zesty way! Our dinner conversation can be frank analysis of each other's psychological defects in between meandering stories of how we've confused others in the normal world. Only problem: They're not much for Thanksgiving and NONE of them like sports. I wanted to spend time with them, but I didn't want to sacrifice what I love about this holiday... so I made a deal! Give me Thanksgiving and I will come.

Since cooking is out of the question due to everyone here dying rapidly, they ordered a full meal from one of those stores. Maybe if might not be as good as home cooking, but it's perfect when preparation could lead to funerals. Also, after years and years of being DEVASTATED by minimal leftovers - THE BEST PART OF THE MEAL, DAMMIT - I have requested sole control of all remaining turkey. It's been years since we went home with enough turkey to last past two sandwiches. Mmmmm..... turkey sandwiches. Om nom nom!

With food covered, the focus turns to football. Thankfully, my aunt's partner is on my side. As long as we both enable each other, we get our football time! Also, when the games turn out to suck - I hate the Cowboys and Titans, and it's clear they will destroy the Lions and my beloved Seahawks - I can go chat with the family AND ENJOY IT!

On paper, this looks to be awesome. In practice... well, that will determine how depressing my "FUCK THIS GIVING OF THANKS SHIT!" post tomorrow will be.

Progress Report

First, the good news! I'm still moving forward with the comic and there's a chance I will be taking 10 strips to DC for inking. Yay! This means I have to get scripting again, since I only have outlines for the remaining strips. This sketch shown is the last panel from Ivy's introduction strip and the best thing I've drawn today. The pose was not originally planned, but it brings out more of Ivy's character than the initial conception. I think this strip shows Ivy being tuned into what the kids are thinking... and how can she resist poking fun?

Now for the bad stuff! EVERYTHING AROUND ME IS FALLING APART! Both my downstairs refrigerators have gone wonky, so I can't trust them anymore. My DVD player - highly instrumental in my art making - is now completely dead. I watched The Mist. I watched Signs. When I put in The Village, I think that was just too freaky for the player to handle. Plugging in The Happening today got me the message, "THIS IS NOT A PLAYABLE DISC!" Everyone's a critic! Thank goodness for the PS2! Yeah, the DVD color balance is way off due to my video game settings, but it's something! As for the review: Someone got *dangerously* meta. If your movie requires an artist's statement to be enjoyed, your admirable pretension might be too much.

Among the walking wounded: My light table has started flickering, my printer only accepts a command half the time, the speakers on the computer are starting to crackly, my computer itself is really showing its age and my scanner has lived a long, full life... AND WE ALL KNOW WHAT COMES AFTER LONG FULL LIVES!

Sad segue, I will be in DC from Wednesday until Sunday. My grandfather has been given a better prognosis, but my grandmother's has gotten far worse. Life is brutally unfair. Oh yeah, my mother had told my grandmother that I was showing up on Monday, when I had planned for Wednesday. I didn't show, and I broke my grandmother's heart. THANKS, MOM!

I had delayed my trip to DC because I can't seem to be productive there and I didn't want to lose my Precocious mojo. Now I feel incredibly guilty and selfish.

There's a bad short story that can come from this. Some guy thinks the universe is against him, as it slowly sabotages everything in his life. The twist: It's the character that is falling apart most of all, and so he dwells on every subtle thing that does not go right whether it's something major or not. Most of the problems are the results of the guy's failure to save himself.

So here I am, going insane because I need to do something to earn my place in this world - and ignoring everything else around me. I look at all the loved ones and possessions that need attention, and I worry... How can I help them when I clearly can't help myself? LET'S FIND OUT!

Once again... Charles Schulz turned his anxiety and lifetime horrors into an amazing cartoon. When things look their worst, maybe I can find my best.

Cranial Concrete

What a way to start November, huh? My mind has been so blank these past few days I couldn't even put up FILLER in good conscience. This has been highly frustrating.

Me and productivity rarely coincide as is, thanks to my brain being wired in an amazingly specific way to negate all my best qualities. Oh, and I'm also hardwired to struggle mightily with any alternate (er, normal, that is) life paths. Basically, I'm wired to fail. Pure force of will alone is how I made it as far as I have. (Have I made it anywhere?) Problem is, I have to actively fight to keep myself even mildly useful - which leaves me vulnerable when life gets fuckly bad. Recent events have worn me down to nothing, which is quite frustrating.

My house is a construction site, which is detrimental in several ways. The constant banging has brutalized my sleep pattern, which is never good for anyone. The lack of a kitchen means I am living out of a microwave now, which sucks. Having the only working appliances as well as the utility stuff nearby means constant invasion of my personal space. (Let's face it, I'm borderline agoraphobic, so this stuff is a big deal.) I cannot get peace here and the constant invasion of people and sounds is starting to severely affect me.

This blog is very useful because the post-a-day goal forces me to have visual proof that I did something positive. Recently, I've been focusing on my writing. I want to create a thorough outline of Maquette so that, if I die unexpectedly, there will be enough there for someone else to take my story and complete it for me. (Note: I am not planning on dying anytime in the next millennium, but I need *something* to force me to put stories that exist entirely in my brain down in real form.) By working on painting in addition to the writing, I had something to show off!

Well, the environment and creative block finally set in with painting. Without something to show, I am just this delusional wistful artist wasting his life on a project no one will ever care about. To make matters worse: My crappy painting skills extend to drawing. For years I would sketch for hours a day. As of late, sitting down to draw feels absolutely foreign. I'm going to chalk it up to the environment finally getting to me, because if my brain was imploding for good that would be far too depressing.

Anyway, the goal of this post was to apologize. I'm not apologizing for my lack of posting her as much as I am apologizing for being a crappy person in this past month. While I've struggled to create, I've increasingly isolated myself. To all my friends I've ignored in that time, I'm really sorry. I've been a wretch and you are so awesome that I'd hate to bring you down with me. Here's to hoping this whiny dirge has been enough blather to get the frustrations out of my brain.

Back to the easel

For some reason, I'm on a painting kick. When this happens, one must not fight it!

These paintings, while still consisting of chicks, makes a new direction that, frankly, scares the bejeebus out of me. I am painting fictional characters. MY fictional characters.

One of my long-term goals in life is to get my act together as a writer. I have stories of all sorts in my head - even in several formats! I have movies, novels, short story collections, graphic novels, plays and TV shows all bouncing about inside my brain. (Oh, and a comic strip, but you might have known that already.) Scariest part: If given the chance, I could tell you everything about them. My problem is that I never learned how to write. In hindsight, it makes sense due to my broken brain - but even with medication the best I can do is write a few pages before I wander off to pace around the room/yard/whatever. My writing folder is filled with documents that are a page and a half (10-point font, single spaced) and often end mid-sentence. How pathetic is that?

I'm a verbal creator. I talk to myself as I pace. I work things out this way. When I sit in front of a computer, the best I can do is throw out whatever I have on the surface-level of my brain and write until something distracts me. (Sometimes, like in this post, I write my distraction and hope the point eventually gets in there.) The problem isn't the same with art, as I am free to get up and bounce around the room as I work. I can flip the canvas/paper, move myself around to work from a different angle or even sprint around the studio to get out excess energy - while keeping my work in the corner of my eye. Writing is...sitting down and just writing. Weird.

Let me tell you that these posts often go through several revisions. (You'll when I *don't* go back to revise because the post is full of typos and makes little sense.) The joy of blogger is that editing doesn't show in the timestamp. Woohoo! Also, blogs tend to favor unfocused rambling. You'll note everything I've written outside of the first four sentences was not something I intended to write. I do this all the time. Only sometimes do I have the proper sense of shame to make me delete the blather.

Anyway! With me and writing, I know my stories inside and out. My tendency is to juggle several fully-formed characters, allowing their personalities to move the plot. This means that, if allowed, I can talk for HOURS on end about some hundred or so characters. Yeah.

My grand piece of writing is my most ambitious: Maquette, a story I call my opera! The characters in the paint sketches below all hail from Maquette. While they will hardly be definitive portraits - as with my painting the style is the main thing - I will do my best to capture what I can of these gals. It's weird to not that the first two characters I decided to take on are both noted for having physical abnormalities. Guess I just like to make things hard for myself.

You can also see more of how my paintings develop, as each painting is at a different stage. The first has had three passes to start figuring out the details. The second is on its second pass, starting to tweak the weakness from the initial sketch. It's still raw as hell and makes me cringe to share it. The last is the very first pass, showing how awkward and awful these things can look when I start 'em. You know what, I'm not going to show that last painting! It's not looking good, it may be scrapped, the character isn't a physical freak like the other two and - most importantly - showing that this character exists would be a *major* spoiler for my story. Those close to me already know the gal, but I have to think of future readers here.



This is Annelise Ellen Rose. Yes, she *does* introduce herself to people using her full name. In her defense, the Rose surname in insanely common in her area. She lives in the city of Rostelmain, in the territory of the same name. Rostelmain's name came from the merging of three towns: Tellersburg, Main Crossing and Roseton. A third of the territory is called Roseland. If you're a Rose - heh, A. Rose - you've got to do *something* to be memorable!

As noted several months ago on this blog (I'm sure you remember) I always want to put librarians into my stories. Annelise is my librarian on steroids - she runs the Maquette Archives, home of just about every bit of information the land has to offer.

Increasing the pressure: She's one of my all-time favorite characters. The woman is a force of nature. She is aggressive, ambitious and unrelenting in her pursuits - with a sharp sense of humor and no patience for weakness. When describing her personality, most characters would liken her to a wild animal. One would think a fox would appropriate, given that she's a striking redhead - but the general consensus is that a more vicious class of wild dog is needed. You know, she's a bitch. I love her. Underneath her tough exterior, she's... well, she's still a bitch - But a complex and deep character nonetheless!

Annelise is loosely modeled on Julianne Moore with a heavy dose of Kate Walsh. (I imagine Annelise speaking with the same cadence as Walsh's Addison on Grey's Anatomy.) As for the aforementioned physical abnormalities, the common description of Annelise is that every physical attribute of hers is out of proportion - but since it's all out of whack it somehow evens out! She has a slightly larger frame than normal women - just enough to be noticeable - with a strong bone structure supporting her. Her shoulders and hips are too broad. Her arms are more muscular than they should be. Her face is slightly out of sync, but not in a way one can explain. She wears giant, clunky corrective shoes that throws off her gait. Still, what could be a Frankenstein's monster thing still leaves her fairly attractive, if somewhat awkward. She has big honkin' glasses, yet they seem to be the key to make everything come together and look normal. This type of description gets imaginations going when put in novels. When I put MYSELF on the line to depict it? Fuck me, I'll do the best I can.



Next is Dania Koren, director of the Wizards School. (Yes, my characters are magical. Shut up!) In my world, on of the great saints, Charlotte Maquin, is quoted in the scripture as saying the more power a human has, the less human they become. The more ability a person has, the less humanity they exhibit. Dania seems to be a living example of this.

To an outsider, one would not believe Dania is a real person. She looks like a doll; with oversized eyes, porcelain skin and a disturbingly-thin frame. To add to the artificial look, she has a cranial implant that wraps around her hairline, looking somewhat like a permanent (if modest) crown bolted in place. She talks in a soft voice, almost in monotone. She *never* shows emotion, and her huge eyes seem to look right through you. It's like she has so much magic inside her that no room remains for humanity. And yet, she's loved by most around her. What gives?

Just because it's muted, doesn't mean her personality isn't there. Once people get to know her, they are no longer frustrated with her flat nature. Instead, they savor every hint of personality Dania can offer. Eliciting a slight smile is a victory. If she raises her voice at you, it's terrifying. The day she confirmed her place as a beloved figure was the day she embraced the students' nickname of her - "The Ice Queen" - and showed up to work with her white hair dyed ice blue. On her most recent birthday (she's 44) a large group of students dyed their hair to match. (I should note that in my stories there is a genetic quirk with some mages that causes some or all of their hair to grow in without pigment - so students often dye their "silvered" patches various wild colors.)

I really struggled to find a model for Dania. Trial and error has shown that launching into painting without *some* picture reference tends to end in horror. The final painting might not look at all like the picture - in fact it shouldn't, since the work has to be my own - but it's nice to have a reference for proportions. To find my model, I scoured the internet for over an hour. I looked for skinny models. I looked for porcelain dolls. I looked at anime characters, since Dania definitely has an anime look. No good. Nothing had Dania's signature ringlets hair style.

And then I smacked myself in the face. You know whose hair is similar to the style I want for Dania? NUMBER SIX FROM BATTLESTAR GALACTICA! You know, the show that has consumed my life for the past few weeks. Shesh, Chrispy! The model was right in front of me the whole time.

Damn, I can yammer on. I know I've said it before, but blogging is like having a conversation without have the other person there to tell you to shut the fuck up because no one cares.

The last chance for progress

My coffee house fantasy girl painting is now complete. I no longer have any excuse for not working on my comic. Fuck.

The subconscious is one's worst critic

OR, how to start one's day in the most inauspicious way possible!

The culprit this time was a dream. Usually I have dreams of brain-numbing repetition or ones where I'm continuously hunting for candy. (Thanks, shameless sweet tooth!) When stress or gluttony dreams aren't in the rotation, it's usually mind torture in the form of anxiety dreams - where everything goes wrong for me. As noted before: My brain hates me.

In today's dream, I was shipped off the convention for people with personality disorders. The goal was to isolate us from society and teach us how to stop being drains on the world. My group was seemingly the worst of the lot. After all, our "invitations" were done in sinister black. The other defect groups had bright cheery colors linked to their disorders. Mine was black. Like, death and depressing black.

This awful group you see, was the COMPLAINERS! We were the cynics and sourpusses who lose their cool at the slightest irritant. We were mean, bitter and no fun to be around. If we didn't fix ourselves, we'd be doomed to a life of sad ostracism.

Proving the event organizer's point, I didn't take my invite well. I, well, COMPLAINED about being singled out as a bad person and admitted I felt persecuted because the black envelope let everyone else know (people who were just as dysfunctional as me - if not more so) that I was the worst of all! I was being avoided! The told me I didn't have to eat in the cafeteria with the rest of the nuts - I could help myself to candy in the guest room. (Yes, even in this dream I desperately needed a chocolate fix.)

The main reason I was upset was because they organization just didn't get it - there are two types of complainers: Zesty and bitter! I complain a lot, but I do it as a purge and I try to find some humor in it. I think running around proclaiming the sky the to be falling is FUNNY! My fellow black-labeled wretches were clearly on the bitter side. We had the old ladies who had nothing to do with their lives but yell at people for being noisy during their naps. We had TONS of repressed conservatives and Christian fundamentalists - who hate themselves because their values are so strict any deviation from them must make them horrible people, so they judge everyone else harsher in retribution. We had the general sad sacks who were so beaten down they'd lost their sense of humor. Basically, I was surrounded by BAD CONVERSATIONALISTS!

We had a private pool just for us sourpusses, but it was very unfriendly. The old ladies wouldn't get in the water for fear of getting their hair wet. The conservatives all inched dangerously close to each other in the hot tub, filled with sickening tension. The sourpusses would dog-paddle around by themselves. I was the only person to take a leap into the water and make a splash. The rest silently walked into the pool from the shallow area - doing all they could to be silent and keep the water calm. I splashed around and tried to get the people to play a game. No response. This was went I went off to complain about my "peers."

At least my brain was telling me I don't belong on that group. As the dream went on, it became clear I was the star of my crew. My fellow complainers - while still hating each other as much as themselves - all warmed to me and my charming ways. I had become a leader and I was fairly respected by everyone in the reject convention.

The next morning, I got a visit from Dana - who was wearing adorable jammies for some reason. Seems she was taken away too, as part of the "obsessive" camp. We happily chatted about sneaking off to get breakfast away from the rest of the wretches. Conversation then turned to the old lady in the bed beside mine. She was frustrated with inconsiderate people making too much noise as she slept. When Dana asked if I was causing problems - as I'm an insomniac and I toss and turn like mad - the old lady said I was the only one she liked. I was never a problem and I didn't make any noise to disturb her. It was a good self-esteem boost.

Eventually, I found some kin in the complainer group in two women. One was a pushy New Yorker whose tongue was sharp enough to disarm all those not tempered to absorb "New York charm." The other was a tall woman - well over six feet - with a loud voice and a pushy attitude. She seemed like the lawyer type. Together, we decided to write a letter to the organization explaining the two types of complainers. We might bitch and moan, but the others in the program are not our people. Line by line we laid out why they suck and why we are simply misunderstood. At one point, I sat back and wondered if what we were doing was too self-serving or something that would make us far more irritating in the organization's eyes than the wretches we found to be vastly inferior. The New Yorker could see it happening, but the other lady (who seemed less self-aware and probably wouldn't be in our group if there had been anyone else slightly worthy) got a bit self-righteous, claiming truth is truth.

At that point the dream trailed off and fell into the standard surrealism/stress dream stuff, such as me trying to reach the pool on the ground level from my floor and managing to end up hanging off a balcony a few stories up. This happens all the time in dreams, of course. Instead of going into the elevator, I ended up outside it and I had to strategically drop down floor by floor, getting me in tons of trouble for the disturbance. During this, another dream standard was at play: I was trying to travel with a gal (generic hottie) and no matter what I did, we'd be separated. I reached the pool and jumped in, only to find she had made it down with me... but forgot her suit. Once again, the pool symbolized isolation!

Overall, I think the meaning is fairly straightforward. The dream was more of a highlighter and exaggerator of stress than one hiding it in symbols. At least it was creative in handling it. I take it as failure when my brain only offers up cookie cutter dreams. Anytime I'm flying or my teeth/hair fall out, I wake up embarrassed for my brain.

Still, it's rather depressing to wake up after a dream where you are officially labeled a black-level asshole. Hey, maybe something reassuring could happen as soon as I wake up to make me feel better about myself.

I woke up to see a GIGANTIC FUCKING SPIDER on the ceiling directly above me. It waited until it was sure I saw it, before it scrambled into a vent. Thus, this arachnophobe now knows there is a GIGANTIC FUCKING SPIDER in my room that is just WAITING FOR ME!

There is no way this day can go well now.

For Sparky

I've finally finished the biography of Charles Schulz tonight, and I can't seem to stop crying. It was hard enough to see him go the first time. Now, with more context and Peanuts mythology, it's even more painful to have him die on me a second time. I know biographies don't work that way, but I had to hold out hope for the happy ending this time - death would be stopped, a fountain of youth would be found and the great masters would be rewarded for their talents by achieving the immortality they deserve.

The more and more I read, the further attached I got to him. When I reached the final chapters, I had to set the book down and walk away. I knew I wasn't going to be able to take it. First thing I did was check Fark, where I read that the animator Schulz hand picked to create A Charlie Brown Christmas, who was also the voice of Snoopy, had died. There was no escaping it - the old guard has gone away.

The day Schulz died is still clear in my mind. I was at my grandparents' house, a place I have always associated with happiness and security, and was pawing at the Sunday paper with NPR on in the background. I don't even remember making it to the comics before the news hit me. Like a true legend, Schulz passed away the day before his final strip was printed. Always the one to say cartooning was his life's work and how proud he was that he did the very best he could with the talents given them and wasting none, once he couldn't continue drawing his strip he ceased to be. I didn't read the comics that day, because I just couldn't take it.

Charles Schulz, "Sparky" to all his friends, is a big reason why I've always wanted to be a cartoonist. He was the great crossover, able to be subversive and mainstream at the same time. Uncompromising and independent, he drew every strip by hand and still found time to script the dozens of animated specials. His drive, competitive nature and - most importantly - talent allowed him to transform the comics page, ruling it in an age when TV and the internet were stealing more and more from the audience. Rather that admit defeat, he simply conquered them too.

Reading that final chapter, as he fell into rapid decline due to colon cancer, was devastating. This wasn't just a man; he was also the embodiment of everything I want to be. All the hopes and dreams I have as an artist were so easily projected onto him. Watching him succeed made me think that *I* could succeed as well. Like countless others, I saw in him a kindred spirit. That's why he was so powerful; because he wasn't so much universal as he was able to personally connect to everyone in the universe. Peanuts was like a great pop song - simple enough for people to grasp, but deep enough to take the endless play such hits get.

When I lived in the DC area (ages 4-8) I had a babysitter bring me a Peanuts book. I believed she let me "borrow" it, but she never got it back. This collection was from very early on in the strip; focusing on Linus as this strange, precocious baby that could do such oddities as blow up a balloon into the shape of a cube - and with Snoopy just beginning to embark on his many fantasy voyages, imagining himself as a snake only be thwarted by a fear of tall grass. I read it over and over. At school, we were encouraged to go to the library weekly to keep finding books to read. I tried the classics, but was rarely taken by them. Problem was, I didn't know what else a kid like me should read. There were so many books in the library, but how could I find the one that would speak to me? My salvation came when I discovered the library stocked some Peanuts collections. I quickly read them all. Primed by Peanuts, I began a daily ritual of reading the comics section of a newspaper and nothing else. Calvin and Hobbes, The Far Side, For Better of For Worse, Bloom County and other classics were part of my life.

At the age of 11, I decided I was going to stop just reading comics and start playing along. I began work on a strip of my own, called Brats, which featured a cartoon avatar of my idealized self (his original name lost to time, but now known as Bud) and his nerdy sidekick, Jacob. Quickly I saw I wasn't very good at cartooning - at least, not nearly as good I was at regular drawing - so I quit.

The idea wouldn't leave me, and Brats came back the next year. This time a spacey lass named Tiffany, bearing the likeness of my current crush of the same name, appeared as the fourth of the group. Wait, fourth? Who was the third? Heck if I know. She was supposed to be the female lead, but never asserted herself.

The final incarnation featured two new additions: A girl who was meant to be a love interest for my main character and another male to balance things out. The new girl, Autumn, quickly proved to be more of a sparring partner with the lead than a girlfriend. The weak female lead was tossed out and Autumn became a headliner. The extra male was put on hold, now that I had a solid group of four. I decided to cover him later and have him move to the neighborhood of Sapphire Lake in a year. (This outsider eventually became Roddy.)

I had my strip. I just didn't have the skill. Cartooning had to be pushed aside to focus on my innate talents. Time and time again I would try to be a cartoonist, and each time my poor skill would make me quit in disgust.

It took my life completely falling apart for cartooning to emerge again. Reduced to a pile of nothing, I was beaten, broken and befuddled by what had happened. That's when I was diagnosed with ADHD and began receiving treatment for it. A week after trying Ritalin, I bought my first sketchbook in years and, back to square one, started over. I *was* a cartoonist and this time I wasn't going to quit. Years of awful drawing went by, but I stuck with it. I finished my first sketchbook ever, then my second and soon I was moving so fast I had to buy my sketchbooks three or four at a time. Cartooning pulled me from my funk and gave me a goal. If I could train myself to be a cartoonist, it meant this old dog could learn new tricks! 17 years after it was conceived - and only a month behind schedule! - Precocious, featuring the same cast, locations and themes as Brats, is about to be launched.

Admittedly, the wheels nearly fell off the wagon as I've struggled mightily over these past months - but reading this biography has given me new strength. A warts-and-all tale, I saw a very human Sparky who went through many ordeals I endured as well. He lost a parent while young. He was quiet, yet fiercely competitive. He was so sure of his own talent that anything short of perfection was devastating. He was an unlikely leader, but an effective one when given a chance. Anxiety and agoraphobia nearly destroyed him, yet he lived a richer and fuller life than most. (I tend to call myself an "extrovert who's fallen on hard times" rather than admit to being a type-B person, and I do believe that was Charles Schulz as well.)

The big difference between Schulz and myself is that he used sadness as fuel, often creating his greatest strips when he was at his lowest. (His strips lost a lot of bite after 1980 because he was just too happy!) I create from joy, while sadness shuts me down completely. When I picked up the book again, after a summer of isolation and disappointment, I felt defeated and lost. I'm still lost, but I don't feel defeated any more. If I am going to be like this idol, I have to turn my anxieties into profit. Easier said than done, but it's something expected of the truly great!

It all started with the babysitter giving me that Peanuts book by Charles Schulz.

Thank you, Sparky

The strip that broke my brain

Since my work area is currently plunged into darkness, I'm going to combat the situation with something that won't solve anything: WORDS! (And, later, sketches!)

There was a reason the first batch of Precocious strips ended right before things got complex. Not only was I about to take on complex perspective, but the hard-to-draw Dionne was about to take center stage. When it came time to rise to the occasion, I instead ran and hid in my sketchbook. Awesome.

During the gap caused by fear, I took time to reevaluate the whole of the first storyline. While I'm still very proud of it, I wasn't satisfied with the transition between the recruitment of Suzette and the soliciting of Dionne. Originally, after Suzette signed up and I would cut to Bud and Jacob peering out a window at the scene, alarmed to see the enemy's numbers growing. It was fine, I guess, but it felt like it came out of nowhere. *I* may know Jacob's house is located in the center of the neighborhood, but a reader doesn't find that out until later on. (Yes, since this storyline is meant to establish the characters and settings, there is a strip devoted to where everyone lives in the neighborhood. I am awesome like that.) Abruptly showing the boys in a house without any establishment seemed like lazy writing. To add to the confusion, Jacob's mother pops up for one line later on in the story without any prior introduction. It became clear to me: I needed to add in a strip to establish Jacob's house.

The timing wasn't going to be a problem. The new strip would appear before the girl's recruitment drive, establishing that the boys were watching Autumn's effort with puzzled curiosity. By introducing Jacob's mother at the same time, not only do we establish the house as Jacob's, but we know who she is when she leans out her window later to ask why Autumn is trampling her petunias. ("Collateral damage, ma'am!") Even better: By having the eternal optimist that is Deirdre Linkletter point out that the neighborhood is full of children - they're just not students of the Poppinstock Academy - I get to reinforce the insular and elitist nature of my children. Perfect!

Here is where my brain exploded. How the heck do I cram all this into four panels? We need the establishing dialog to cover all the pertinent points, but no so much it obscures the complex perspectives this strip requires. Draft after draft went by where something was just missing. I debating splitting the topic into two strips, but there really was just one worthy punchline. The current version works well enough, but it's best told with five or six panels. Too much for one strip; too little for two. I think I can do it, but it requires masterful use of space and perspective. So, yeah, a master cartoonist could pull this off. I am decidedly a n00b here.

Here's the current incarnation:

Panel 1:
(Jacob and Bud peer out a window in Jacob's house)
Jacob: I'm confused.
Bud: What are those girls doing?
Deirdre (entering): What's wrong, boys?

Panel 2:
(The boys and Deirdre look through the window to see the girls in the foreground working on the booth.)
Jacob: They've set up a booth, mom!
Bud: There's no one to recruit here!
Deirdre: Actually, the neighborhood is full of children your age.

Panel 3:
(Back to the interior of Jacob's house)
Deirdre: Just because they don't go to your school doesn't, heh, mean they don't exist!
(Bud and Jacob give her a blank stare)

Panel 4:
Bud (turning back to the window): What are those girls doing?
Jacob: There's no one to recruit here!

Ok, it's not the strongest of strips, but it's vital connective tissue. I *should* just plow through and get it done, but the perfectionist in me is both frightened of failure and unsatisfied that I couldn't solve my problems with more grace.

My solution to everything is MORE SKETCHING and MORE PRACTICE - which is great but also means NO RESULTS! Below I share a bit of the sketchbook effort to solve my brain rot.



This is a rough of how the first panel will look. This is doable - speech bubbles and character heights align perfectly.



This sketchbook page chronicles a few failed attempts. Panel two is friggin' complex and I can't even set up my characters in their window yet. The stare down - which *should* be its own panel, but can't for space reason - shows how I still lack a full handling on my characters' proportions. Bud's feet appear while Deirdre's body continues. That, frankly, will not fly. Only time will fix that problem, but that is just not soon enough for me! PRACTICE IS SUPPOSED TO MAKE PERFECT! All I'm doing now is unlocking more and more ways to vary how my characters look, thus muddling the issue.

Let me also point out that I draw one lousy water balloon, which is also a bad sign as this storyline revolves around a water balloon fight.

I know what you're thinking. Filtering out the insults about my character, you're wondering why I don't just skip the strip and move on to easier tasks. Well...

1. It's not like the layout is getting any easier. I've been quite ambitious with my design.
2. Since I'm still relatively early on in development, my drawing technique is still changing with alarming frequency. It's been a few months since I last drew a strip already, should I press on and come back later, the stylistic evolution would be alarming clear. When one works with cartoon animals, one should avoid doing something that will jar a reader out of their suspension of disbelief.
3. I'm crazy. Rationality has no impact on me!

There. Another inspirational post from me. YEEHAW!

The Graveyard of Light

Above is my favorite comic strip of all time. Charles Schulz' Peanuts is easily the biggest inspiration for Precocious and with all my recent health issues I've had the time to reacquaint myself with my archives. I've also been reading Schulz' biography - although it's much harder to read that than four-panel strips when doped up - so you can say the man's taken over my life.

The reason I share today is to curse the darkness like my favorite character of all time, Lucy Van Pelt.

Following up on the reemerging inspiration of yesterday, I decided to try and get some cartooning done. Then I remembered that I LIVE IN DARKNESS! Now, my natural habitat is one not unlike that of a vampire's - but the key is that I *could* obtain light when needed before. It's one of the benefits of electricity. Those times are over. I thought electricity was my friend! Then, just like it was one of my friends, it had to become unreliable for me; helping me only when it chose to, before finally leaving me helpless and alone.

First the stands of Christmas lights I'd hung around began to die. In what was surely a healthy set-up, the Christmas lights provided enough ambient light for me to function during the day and sleep at night - a perfect situation for the pale and lazy! In an electrician's nightmare, I had them strung all around the room in one big loop. As one could expect from cheap lights purchased at dollar stores after holiday seasons, these lights were not meant to last. First the lights at the corner went. Well, the only reason I'm over there is to use to the light table, so that's no biggie. Then went the ones above the doors. Fine, I still have enough light. Then went the strands over my bed. Welcome to darkness town! Half my room was now officially dark.

As an artist, one of course needs more light than holiday novelties can provide; so I would bring in unused lamps from around the house. Man, they did *not* last long. One had one of those non-standard light bulbs, so fuck that extra hassle once it exploded. The next was so old, the bulb and lamp had fused together. Once it died, there was nothing I could do to save that ancient bastard.

So then it was on to the unreliable flood lighting. I've long known the wiring of this place was screwy, but that's why I had brought in all those extra lights! Now I was at the mercy of the cheap jerk who build this house.

Despite using energy-efficient, long-lasting bulbs, my ceiling would consume them with alarming frequency. For the most part, I tried to move the lights around so the non-burnt out would light useful areas, but this compromise was not to be. One light would die. I'd replace it. It would die a day later. I'd plug in more Christmas lights. It was the natural order of the room, y'know?

As the wiring got more and more messed up, I'd notice the lights would burn out in order. My guess was the power was being distributed unevenly between the live and the dead, overloading the temporarily-living. (Electricity probably does not work this way, but I don't *really* care to know one way or the other.) The solution seemed clear: replace EVERYTHING! It seemed to work!

Things were going well until everyone died.

Entering the room, I'd flick the light switch and head a sickening electrical buzzing sound. The lights would flicker and go dark. Flicking the switch off and on again would fix that. For a while. Like pancreatic cancer in my ceiling, the time between diagnosis and death was short and painful. The switch no longer works. My lamps are dead. My eternal Christmas has gone the way of the belief in Santa.

This makes it exceedingly hard to, oh, work on art. My lone lighting hold out was this fluorescent desk lamp thing I had rigged above my bed for reading. You can guess what happened to that. It didn't *die* like the rest - it's just dying in the way fluorescent bulbs die... with that sickly strobe effect.

So now I am either living in darkness or the WORST TECHNO CLUB EVER. I eat by the light of my old piano lamp. I work by the strobe of the relocated lamp. (In theory, as I have yet to do any work thanks to this situation.) I read by a tiny light that I had used to light the fold-out shelves in a kitchen cabinet. It provides the strength of four candles, but *also* has the added annoyance of being above my head, looking like an alien invasion. (Or that much-mocked Star Trek: TNG episode. "THERE! ARE! FOUR! LIGHTS!")

You know, maybe those karma-obsessed, chakra-loving moonbeam huggers are right after all. This room's health is uncannily related to my own physical and mental state. Look, universe, I'm all for controlling my environment, but I want that control to be in the form of TOTAL DOMINATION! If it gets broken when I do, we're going to have problems. It's one thing to be the universe's scratching post - you get to blame it for all of your problems! BUT, if my environmental breakdown is entirely tied to my actions, that is JUST NOT COOL!

YOU STUPID DARKNESS!

Concern

It's been a disastrous July/August for me, resulting in total physical breakdown these past few weeks. These are indeed times for concern.

But I'm starting to pull out of the funk - physically, at least. What remains are the mental scars that must be overcome. Those don't go away nearly as fast, but all I can do is hope I break out soon. The urge to create is starting to buzz inside me again... can productivity be far behind?

Considering my track record with optimism, I'm not making any promises until I have real results.