Wednesday, March 28, 2007
Tuesday, March 27, 2007
southleft
Every so often, but more often than I wish I would, I go through a period of flux, in which my Internal Creative Compass no longer points in a recognizable direction. And it's happening right now. Yay.
The symptoms of Flux are as follows:
1) a lack of interest in making things (drawings, stories, your bed, what have you), and an inability to appreciate things that you make.
2) eating a whole Pizza Hut pizza for dinner and a bag of SweeTarts for desert every night for a week.
3) a prevailing belief that your life might have been better spent pursuing a career as an E! News host, and that you would almost certainly be less annoying than Sal Masekela.
4) unfavorably comparing your new work to your old work.
5) unfavorably comparing your new work to everything else that can be seen by the naked eye.
6) making sad faces.
7) breaking stuff.
Stop laughing. Flux ain't no joke. It can make you feel like the universe is spinning off its axle, and every time you sit down at your drafting table, you're straining to pull it back into alignment, again. It's never easy to fill up a blank piece of paper, but the journey from A to B, with all it's detours and scenic roads, is the usually the most thrilling part of making art. You're always a little unsure what the results will be, but that's okay, because, at the very least, you know when you draw a line you like. If you keep drawing lines you like, how bad can the picture be? When Flux is involved, it will possess your compass, and no matter what kind of line you draw, it will inevitably tell you that line sucks. Then, it will tell you to draw another line, and tell you that one sucks, too. Flux, with its cruel, shrill, spastic voice, will convince you to ride a rickety rollercoaster and laugh hysterically when your car flies off the track into a rabbit warren, setting it ablaze.
Yet, despite its sadistic and unpleasant nature, Flux is a necessary part of the creative process, because you'll keep beating your head against the wall looking for a cure, until you get so used to the frustration you transcend it. It's like saying the word "milk" over and over. Eventually, it loses all meaning, and you wonder why it was ever called that in the first place. Art is like that, too. There's no right way to do anything, just a set of rules you construct in order for you to classify your work and categorize yourself, for yourself. And every once in a while, you've got to clear the decks and rebuild from the ground up.
Hold on.
What's that, Internal Creative Compass?
Okay, what the hell is a Southleft?
The symptoms of Flux are as follows:
1) a lack of interest in making things (drawings, stories, your bed, what have you), and an inability to appreciate things that you make.
2) eating a whole Pizza Hut pizza for dinner and a bag of SweeTarts for desert every night for a week.
3) a prevailing belief that your life might have been better spent pursuing a career as an E! News host, and that you would almost certainly be less annoying than Sal Masekela.
4) unfavorably comparing your new work to your old work.
5) unfavorably comparing your new work to everything else that can be seen by the naked eye.
6) making sad faces.
7) breaking stuff.
Stop laughing. Flux ain't no joke. It can make you feel like the universe is spinning off its axle, and every time you sit down at your drafting table, you're straining to pull it back into alignment, again. It's never easy to fill up a blank piece of paper, but the journey from A to B, with all it's detours and scenic roads, is the usually the most thrilling part of making art. You're always a little unsure what the results will be, but that's okay, because, at the very least, you know when you draw a line you like. If you keep drawing lines you like, how bad can the picture be? When Flux is involved, it will possess your compass, and no matter what kind of line you draw, it will inevitably tell you that line sucks. Then, it will tell you to draw another line, and tell you that one sucks, too. Flux, with its cruel, shrill, spastic voice, will convince you to ride a rickety rollercoaster and laugh hysterically when your car flies off the track into a rabbit warren, setting it ablaze.
Yet, despite its sadistic and unpleasant nature, Flux is a necessary part of the creative process, because you'll keep beating your head against the wall looking for a cure, until you get so used to the frustration you transcend it. It's like saying the word "milk" over and over. Eventually, it loses all meaning, and you wonder why it was ever called that in the first place. Art is like that, too. There's no right way to do anything, just a set of rules you construct in order for you to classify your work and categorize yourself, for yourself. And every once in a while, you've got to clear the decks and rebuild from the ground up.
Hold on.
What's that, Internal Creative Compass?
Okay, what the hell is a Southleft?
the blockbuster psychic
A few weeks ago, I went into a Blockbuster to rent some videos, and left with Pirates of the Carribean: Curse of the Black Pearl, Home on the Range, and a belief in the sixth sense.
Here's what happened: I was in the middle of checking out, when the cashier, a guy in his mid-twenties, said, "Can I ask you a weird question?" (in itself a weird question). I replied "okay," and braced myself for something along the lines of "Do you like to eat keys?".
But what he said was, "Did you have anything to do with 9/11? I mean, were you there?".
I was stunned. I was there. I worked in Manhattan, a mile from the World Trade Center, in 2001, the only year I have ever lived in New York City. I told him as much.
"Yeah," he said, "I got an image of you sitting on a curb, or something." I had sat on a curb that day. Several, in fact.
The cashier's co-worker stood there frozen and slack-jawed. "Dude," he muttered. "Dude, that's crazy."
"Are you serious?" the cashier asked me.
"Are you?" I said.
When he didn't budge, I told the cashier, with a completely straight face, that he had super powers. Then I left the store, unsure of how to continue the conversation.
And I still don't know what to make of it. No one who's heard the story has offered an alternative to paranormality except my friend Steve, who proposed that, although my rental card listed my previous address in Madison, Wisconsin, my entire history as a Blockbuster customer might have popped up on the cashier's screen. Did this supposed psychic see that I registered for my first card in Brooklyn in 2001? Or did he read my mind?
Spooky.
Here's what happened: I was in the middle of checking out, when the cashier, a guy in his mid-twenties, said, "Can I ask you a weird question?" (in itself a weird question). I replied "okay," and braced myself for something along the lines of "Do you like to eat keys?".
But what he said was, "Did you have anything to do with 9/11? I mean, were you there?".
I was stunned. I was there. I worked in Manhattan, a mile from the World Trade Center, in 2001, the only year I have ever lived in New York City. I told him as much.
"Yeah," he said, "I got an image of you sitting on a curb, or something." I had sat on a curb that day. Several, in fact.
The cashier's co-worker stood there frozen and slack-jawed. "Dude," he muttered. "Dude, that's crazy."
"Are you serious?" the cashier asked me.
"Are you?" I said.
When he didn't budge, I told the cashier, with a completely straight face, that he had super powers. Then I left the store, unsure of how to continue the conversation.
And I still don't know what to make of it. No one who's heard the story has offered an alternative to paranormality except my friend Steve, who proposed that, although my rental card listed my previous address in Madison, Wisconsin, my entire history as a Blockbuster customer might have popped up on the cashier's screen. Did this supposed psychic see that I registered for my first card in Brooklyn in 2001? Or did he read my mind?
Spooky.
Monday, March 26, 2007
Sunday, March 25, 2007
slow news day
I ripped this out of the Milwaukee Journal Sentinal several months ago, intending to start a scrapbook of boring headlines, but none have topped this, yet:
I mean, come on.
I mean, come on.
Friday, March 23, 2007
why i smell
According to the website the best stuff in the world, which lets visitors cast their vote for...the best stuff in the world, the smell of second-hand books is the eighteenth most popular odor (out of a listed sixty-three), barely edging out mint, and falling just below bonfires. Discounting the fact that a) the results are based on an internet poll, and b) the number two most popular smell is "boobs," this is very encouraging news to me, an admitted book sniffer.
Now, before you picture me holed up in a library bathroom with my nose pressed in the spine of Moby Dick (not the whale, itself), recognize that there are many different levels of obsession in all things, including book-sniffing. Take J.D. Roth (sadly, not the host of Fun House), who described his compulsion on his personal blog, Foldedspace.org, thusly:
The first thing I do when I get a book, or when I pick one up in a store, or at a friend's house, is to sniff it...I have an unwritten, unordered classification for types of smells. If I wanted to, I could write down an entire taxonomy of book smells. There are general categories, of course — musty, smoky, newsprinty, new-y, etc. — but there are also minute gradations — like a late-seventies Harvey comic, like a Del Rey sci-fi paperback, like a grade school library book, like a European food magazine.
Over at the Tribe Booklover’s forum, Mark posted the question, “Do you smell books?”, to which Susie responded:
OK, I'll admit it. I smell books. It all started in junior high. We would order books for english class and when I'd get mine I'd open them and smell them. There's just nothin like the smell of a fresh new paperback straight out of the box.
You said it, Susie. Here’s Ms. Smart, same forum, clearly disgusted:
no.
And then, there's Steve:
My copy of Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norrell smells like tar.
Neither a confirmation nor a denial, Steve's response is chilling in its ambiguity.
I'm not quite Susie, but I'm no Ms. Smart, either; I have purposely engaged in the act. I don’t do this often, but it happens sometimes when I’m flipping through old picture books. I have no reason for doing this other than my apparent attraction to the weird tang of mildew. It reminds me of being in my elementary school library, where I read, for the first time, books that I still love. I hope that my books smell like that, someday.
Now, before you picture me holed up in a library bathroom with my nose pressed in the spine of Moby Dick (not the whale, itself), recognize that there are many different levels of obsession in all things, including book-sniffing. Take J.D. Roth (sadly, not the host of Fun House), who described his compulsion on his personal blog, Foldedspace.org, thusly:
The first thing I do when I get a book, or when I pick one up in a store, or at a friend's house, is to sniff it...I have an unwritten, unordered classification for types of smells. If I wanted to, I could write down an entire taxonomy of book smells. There are general categories, of course — musty, smoky, newsprinty, new-y, etc. — but there are also minute gradations — like a late-seventies Harvey comic, like a Del Rey sci-fi paperback, like a grade school library book, like a European food magazine.
Over at the Tribe Booklover’s forum, Mark posted the question, “Do you smell books?”, to which Susie responded:
OK, I'll admit it. I smell books. It all started in junior high. We would order books for english class and when I'd get mine I'd open them and smell them. There's just nothin like the smell of a fresh new paperback straight out of the box.
You said it, Susie. Here’s Ms. Smart, same forum, clearly disgusted:
no.
And then, there's Steve:
My copy of Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norrell smells like tar.
Neither a confirmation nor a denial, Steve's response is chilling in its ambiguity.
I'm not quite Susie, but I'm no Ms. Smart, either; I have purposely engaged in the act. I don’t do this often, but it happens sometimes when I’m flipping through old picture books. I have no reason for doing this other than my apparent attraction to the weird tang of mildew. It reminds me of being in my elementary school library, where I read, for the first time, books that I still love. I hope that my books smell like that, someday.
Thursday, March 22, 2007
Wednesday, March 21, 2007
a very special blog post
In a competition that separated the men from the boys, and the people who can email from those who either can't, were freaked out by sending a complete stranger their address, thought the prize was crappy, or were completely apathetic over the whole shebang, Colleen of San Diego, California, using her formidable typing skills, has become the winner of The Great Shrinky-Dink Giveaway! To celebrate this momentous occasion, I sat at my computer and typed what you're reading while eating a bowl of Cinnamon Toast Crunch. Huzzah!
Congratulations, Colleen! Thank you for bringing an end to this clearly premature attempt at a contest.
Congratulations, Colleen! Thank you for bringing an end to this clearly premature attempt at a contest.
Tuesday, March 20, 2007
a confession
I was driving down County Highway JJ at midnight. The radio was on and playing a heartbreaking tune by Vince Gill that I just had to sing along with because I love Vince Gill. The song is about a man and woman who fall in love, have fights, and fall in love again.
Then, I came upon a lonely tree on the side of the road doing 85, and that’s when this alien came running out. I mean, what a stupid alien! Why did he wait until then to cross the road? Perhaps we’ll never know.
Anyway, I smashed into him, because I didn’t have time to swerve out of the way, and he just blew up.
Well, that was scary!
I stopped the car with a screeching halt right after, and checked out the damage to the bumper and hood. It wasn’t too bad. The chrome was chipped, but a little half-test seal mount would cure that.
Right then, I didn’t know it was a alien. But then I saw this alien head wiggling around like a giant avocado, and I realized that it was a alien. I fell on my knees, and prayed to God that I hadn’t killed the only alien I ever saw. Unfortunately, I did.
Sometimes, I lie awake late at night and think about that alien. Did I do the right thing by killing that alien? I just don’t know.
If you killed a alien, what would you do?
Then, I came upon a lonely tree on the side of the road doing 85, and that’s when this alien came running out. I mean, what a stupid alien! Why did he wait until then to cross the road? Perhaps we’ll never know.
Anyway, I smashed into him, because I didn’t have time to swerve out of the way, and he just blew up.
Well, that was scary!
I stopped the car with a screeching halt right after, and checked out the damage to the bumper and hood. It wasn’t too bad. The chrome was chipped, but a little half-test seal mount would cure that.
Right then, I didn’t know it was a alien. But then I saw this alien head wiggling around like a giant avocado, and I realized that it was a alien. I fell on my knees, and prayed to God that I hadn’t killed the only alien I ever saw. Unfortunately, I did.
Sometimes, I lie awake late at night and think about that alien. Did I do the right thing by killing that alien? I just don’t know.
If you killed a alien, what would you do?
Sunday, March 18, 2007
miscellany
A few news items and updates:
First of all, The Great Shrinky-Dink Giveaway is still in progress! Send an email with the subject line "dink", and your name and mailing address to jeff@newmanpictures.com, and you could be the owner of an original piece of shriveled, plastic art!
First of all, The Great Shrinky-Dink Giveaway is still in progress! Send an email with the subject line "dink", and your name and mailing address to jeff@newmanpictures.com, and you could be the owner of an original piece of shriveled, plastic art!
Secondly, check out Hometown Tales podcast #145 to hear the spooky story of the "Twin Beds", read by Bryan Minogue.
Last but not least, I received my plaque from the Society of Children's Book Writers and Illustrators for Hippo! No, Rhino, a 2006 Golden Kite Award Honor Book, in addition to some neat stickers which I slapped on all of my copies. Here's what they look like:
Saturday, March 17, 2007
i'm rich
Recently, I've been reading a lot about the harsh realities of being a published children's author; the low pay, the long nights, and the empty stomachs. And frankly, I don't know what these people are talking about. I'm rich.
Some of these complainers would have you believe that they've never burned a million dollar bill in a crystal urn just to know what it smells like, or fed their dog bald eagle wings. I'm not like that. I'll tell you the truth, because I believe what they don't: you can fly to Jakarta to party with Diddy on Saturday and be back in time to read at a children's hospital on Monday. Being a good person and role model to today's youth and owning a gold hovercraft are not mutually exclusive.
A life of luxury is nothing to be ashamed of, so, dear colleagues, I urge you to lift the veil. Keep making books that inspire, but don't pretend you clip your own toenails when your robot servants do it for you. It's insulting.
Some of these complainers would have you believe that they've never burned a million dollar bill in a crystal urn just to know what it smells like, or fed their dog bald eagle wings. I'm not like that. I'll tell you the truth, because I believe what they don't: you can fly to Jakarta to party with Diddy on Saturday and be back in time to read at a children's hospital on Monday. Being a good person and role model to today's youth and owning a gold hovercraft are not mutually exclusive.
A life of luxury is nothing to be ashamed of, so, dear colleagues, I urge you to lift the veil. Keep making books that inspire, but don't pretend you clip your own toenails when your robot servants do it for you. It's insulting.
Friday, March 16, 2007
Thursday, March 15, 2007
Tuesday, March 13, 2007
the great shrinky-dink giveaway
In an effort to promote readership (and viewership) of this blog, I've decided to periodically sponsor a contest in which one lucky patron will receive an original piece of Shrinky-Dink art, created by yours truly.
To claim this first stunning example of hand-crafted finery, you must:
A) Not know me (in the biblical sense, or through familial/friend relationships).
B) Be the first to send an email with the subject line "dink", and your name and mailing address to jeff@newmanpictures.com.
C) That's it.
The winner will receive his or her prize within 10-14 days from the date of contest end (which will be celebrated with a very special blog post). Winners outside of the United States can expect to wait...longer.
Newmanpicturesblog is in no way affiliated with Shrinky-Dinks or K & B Innovations, Inc., and does not accept responsibility for injuries related to Shrinky-Dink mishandling.
To claim this first stunning example of hand-crafted finery, you must:
A) Not know me (in the biblical sense, or through familial/friend relationships).
B) Be the first to send an email with the subject line "dink", and your name and mailing address to jeff@newmanpictures.com.
C) That's it.
The winner will receive his or her prize within 10-14 days from the date of contest end (which will be celebrated with a very special blog post). Winners outside of the United States can expect to wait...longer.
Newmanpicturesblog is in no way affiliated with Shrinky-Dinks or K & B Innovations, Inc., and does not accept responsibility for injuries related to Shrinky-Dink mishandling.
Monday, March 12, 2007
Sunday, March 11, 2007
Friday, March 9, 2007
how to fight an alligator
Last week, my mother sent my brother and I the following email. The subject line was “Seriously guys”:
“If an alligator ever grabs you, do you know what to do to get him to let go before he eats you?? TAKE YOUR THUMB AND POKE HIM RIGHT IN THE EYE. It was on the news the other day!! XXOOO”
I wrote back: “Where was this email yesterday, when I really needed it?”
Minutes later, my brother responded:
“Seriously, i'm emailing you from the alligator injury ward at st. mary's hospital in hoboken...”
In her reply to our replies, my mother tried to achieve some relevance:
“ I'M TALKING ABOUT IF YOU ARE EVER IN FLA OR THE BAYOU AND YOU WERE, WEREN'T YOU??????? MICHAEL'S BEEN IN FLA -- MAYBE EVEN THE BAYOU. THE OTHER DAY A GUY IN FLA WAS STANDING BY THE WATERWAY OR WHEREEVER AND THE GATOR JUST APPEARED FROM NOWWHERE AND GRABBED HIS FOOT AND DRAGGED HIM INTO THE WATER. THAT'S WHEN HE EYEBALLED HIM WITH HIS THUMB, AND HE LET GO!
I'M NICE AND COOL AT THE LIBRARY TYPING AND READING. HOPE YOU'RE BOTH COOL TOO. LOVE, MUM
P.S. DID YOU KNOW THAT IT WAS JUST REPORTED SPOTTINGS OF GATORS IN WISCONSIN AND NEWARK, NEW JERSEY ON THE WATERWAY??”
I was not aware of this, nor did I believe it. So, when I stepped outside that afternoon to get some coffee, I was completely unprepared to see an alligator gnawing on the head of an elderly man right there on the sidewalk.
“T-take your thumb, and poke him in the eye!” I shouted, pantomiming the action.
The old man silently reached a hand out to me. Three of his fingers were missing.
“Jesus," I said, and went back inside.
* * *
Last week, you could walk outside your door and take a walk without being eaten. You could eat a sandwich without being eaten. You could even eat alligator without being eaten by an alligator. Last week, the irrational fear of being eaten by an alligator was still irrational.
Today, I got a call from the recently erected Alligator Injury Ward at St. Mary’s Hospital in Hoboken.
“It’s more of a MASH unit in an abandoned parking lot next to the hospital than an actual ward,” my brother was saying. “It’s not abandoned anymore, but you know what I mean.”
“Mmm-hmm,” I grunted, crunching a carrot stick. Outside my windows, the streets were rolling green. “So...everything’s okay there, then. I mean, you’re okay, right?”
“I’m fine. Yeah, I’m fine,” he said. “It’s healing. I think it’s going to...”
On the other end of the line, a siren flared, drowing out the rest of my brother’s response.
“I’m glad you’re doing better,” I said.
“If an alligator ever grabs you, do you know what to do to get him to let go before he eats you?? TAKE YOUR THUMB AND POKE HIM RIGHT IN THE EYE. It was on the news the other day!! XXOOO”
I wrote back: “Where was this email yesterday, when I really needed it?”
Minutes later, my brother responded:
“Seriously, i'm emailing you from the alligator injury ward at st. mary's hospital in hoboken...”
In her reply to our replies, my mother tried to achieve some relevance:
“ I'M TALKING ABOUT IF YOU ARE EVER IN FLA OR THE BAYOU AND YOU WERE, WEREN'T YOU??????? MICHAEL'S BEEN IN FLA -- MAYBE EVEN THE BAYOU. THE OTHER DAY A GUY IN FLA WAS STANDING BY THE WATERWAY OR WHEREEVER AND THE GATOR JUST APPEARED FROM NOWWHERE AND GRABBED HIS FOOT AND DRAGGED HIM INTO THE WATER. THAT'S WHEN HE EYEBALLED HIM WITH HIS THUMB, AND HE LET GO!
I'M NICE AND COOL AT THE LIBRARY TYPING AND READING. HOPE YOU'RE BOTH COOL TOO. LOVE, MUM
P.S. DID YOU KNOW THAT IT WAS JUST REPORTED SPOTTINGS OF GATORS IN WISCONSIN AND NEWARK, NEW JERSEY ON THE WATERWAY??”
I was not aware of this, nor did I believe it. So, when I stepped outside that afternoon to get some coffee, I was completely unprepared to see an alligator gnawing on the head of an elderly man right there on the sidewalk.
“T-take your thumb, and poke him in the eye!” I shouted, pantomiming the action.
The old man silently reached a hand out to me. Three of his fingers were missing.
“Jesus," I said, and went back inside.
* * *
Last week, you could walk outside your door and take a walk without being eaten. You could eat a sandwich without being eaten. You could even eat alligator without being eaten by an alligator. Last week, the irrational fear of being eaten by an alligator was still irrational.
Today, I got a call from the recently erected Alligator Injury Ward at St. Mary’s Hospital in Hoboken.
“It’s more of a MASH unit in an abandoned parking lot next to the hospital than an actual ward,” my brother was saying. “It’s not abandoned anymore, but you know what I mean.”
“Mmm-hmm,” I grunted, crunching a carrot stick. Outside my windows, the streets were rolling green. “So...everything’s okay there, then. I mean, you’re okay, right?”
“I’m fine. Yeah, I’m fine,” he said. “It’s healing. I think it’s going to...”
On the other end of the line, a siren flared, drowing out the rest of my brother’s response.
“I’m glad you’re doing better,” I said.
Thursday, March 8, 2007
twin beds
It's no secret that I love Hometown Tales, having mentioned the podcast several times in a blog that's ostensibly about illustrating for children. They're just that good. Today, I wrote in with another story, but in case it doesn't get on the air, I'm including it here. Credit should go to Mr. A.J. Belmont, who either experienced something exceptionally freaky, or told me the most convincing campfire story I've ever heard.
About 10 years ago, when a friend of mine was living in an apartment building in Boston, one of his next-door neighbor’s was an elderly man. They ignored each other, for the most part, except to occasionally say hello.
At one point during his occupancy, my friend noticed a faint but terrible odor in the hallway. Over the next few days, the smell worsened. Some of the residents complained to the landlord. One evening, my friend came home from work to find the paramedics and police outside his apartment building. When he asked what had happened he was told that the elderly man had been found dead in bed. What’s more, he had been dead for at least two weeks.
After my friend was allowed to enter the premises again (presumably after the body had been taken away and the building fumigated), he had the opportunity to look inside the dead man’s apartment. Most of his furniture and possessions had yet to be removed, including the man’s bed, the headboard of which was pushed up against the wall. When my friend returned to his apartment he realized that the headboard of his bed was pushed up against the opposite side of the same wall. He had been sleeping head to head with a dead man for two weeks.
About 10 years ago, when a friend of mine was living in an apartment building in Boston, one of his next-door neighbor’s was an elderly man. They ignored each other, for the most part, except to occasionally say hello.
At one point during his occupancy, my friend noticed a faint but terrible odor in the hallway. Over the next few days, the smell worsened. Some of the residents complained to the landlord. One evening, my friend came home from work to find the paramedics and police outside his apartment building. When he asked what had happened he was told that the elderly man had been found dead in bed. What’s more, he had been dead for at least two weeks.
After my friend was allowed to enter the premises again (presumably after the body had been taken away and the building fumigated), he had the opportunity to look inside the dead man’s apartment. Most of his furniture and possessions had yet to be removed, including the man’s bed, the headboard of which was pushed up against the wall. When my friend returned to his apartment he realized that the headboard of his bed was pushed up against the opposite side of the same wall. He had been sleeping head to head with a dead man for two weeks.
Wednesday, March 7, 2007
killing time
Living in the serial killer capital of the United States (unverified) can really make you blue, sometimes. Not that I blame flesh eating psychopaths for my mood, lately. But there is something desolate about Milwaukee. When I first visited here, about 5 years ago, I said "it looks like the city was attacked by zombies." Then, in the 2004 remake of Dawn of the Dead, it was, confirming that if it wasn't already ruled by the zombies, its seeming lack of human population would make it a prime candidate for takeover.
It hasn't happened, yet, which is a shame, really. I could use a distraction about now, and plowing through an army of the undead with a Humvee sounds like a decent way to kill a few hours.
It hasn't happened, yet, which is a shame, really. I could use a distraction about now, and plowing through an army of the undead with a Humvee sounds like a decent way to kill a few hours.
Tuesday, March 6, 2007
Monday, March 5, 2007
the waiting game
I used to think of myself as a patient person, but it's impossible to pretend that I am, anymore. Instant (or at least, consistent) gratification seems scarily vital to me, now, and I'm not sure I like it (on the other hand, I don't know how to fight it). I think part of the reason why I started this blog is because it satisfies that ever-growing part of me that needs to see results yesterday.
Right now is a particularly frustrating time for me, as I wait for my editor's comments on my developing picture book that I alluded to way back when. There's nothing to do but wait until he's finished, and even when the waiting's done, there may be more revisions, which will be sent back to my editor to await, possibly, more comments. Additionally, the book is being brought to another imprint. That means that a new art director (hopefully, someone who doesn't think the book is junk) has to be appointed. At present, I'm approximating a release date sometime in early 2032.
I'm down about it, but I shouldn't be, especially with all the great things happening lately. In some way, though, it's those very things that are making me anxious to get moving. I've written a book that folks have actually read (and some of them even liked it). I've got a good head a steam built up, but what good is that when you've got nowhere to go?
Right now is a particularly frustrating time for me, as I wait for my editor's comments on my developing picture book that I alluded to way back when. There's nothing to do but wait until he's finished, and even when the waiting's done, there may be more revisions, which will be sent back to my editor to await, possibly, more comments. Additionally, the book is being brought to another imprint. That means that a new art director (hopefully, someone who doesn't think the book is junk) has to be appointed. At present, I'm approximating a release date sometime in early 2032.
I'm down about it, but I shouldn't be, especially with all the great things happening lately. In some way, though, it's those very things that are making me anxious to get moving. I've written a book that folks have actually read (and some of them even liked it). I've got a good head a steam built up, but what good is that when you've got nowhere to go?
Sunday, March 4, 2007
Friday, March 2, 2007
golden kite
Okay, now I'm really freaked out: I just got a call from the Society of Children's Book Writers and Illustrators informing me that Hippo! No, Rhino is a Golden Kite Award Honor Book. The Golden Kite is awarded to only eight books (including both an award and honor recipient in each of the four categories) out of over one thousand submissions each year. Moreover, the winners are chosen by fellow authors and illustrators! I'm too bewildered to comment, at the moment, but I would like to thank the two rhinoceroses and all of the confused patrons at Henry Vilas Zoo who made this book possible. This one's for you!
Thursday, March 1, 2007
Tuesday, February 27, 2007
not your blog
Remember when I recommended the Hometown Tales podcast in a previous post? Well, one of the stories that I submitted from my hometown of Ashland, Massachusetts (regarding the haunting of Stone's Public House) made it in to episode 139! I'm almost certainly the only one excited by this, but this is my blog, after all.
Monday, February 26, 2007
my winter vacation
I've been gone for a couple days. To where, you ask? Why, to Disney World! For those of you that still think Disney World is the happiest place on earth, here's a brief photo journal of my trip to the Magic Kingdom. All others (i.e. those of you with evil, black hearts and mirthless souls), please move along:
Main Street, U.S.A.
Honest John, selling children into slavery since 1940
Magic carpets in Adventureland
Quit it
The Jungle Cruise
Splash Mountain
In line at Splash Mountain, under threat of nastiness
Approaching the Haunted Mansion
Fantasyland
Teacups
Toontown boat house, and its lonely inhabitant
Me, eating a turkey leg in Frontierland
Main Street, U.S.A.
Honest John, selling children into slavery since 1940
Magic carpets in Adventureland
Quit it
The Jungle Cruise
Splash Mountain
In line at Splash Mountain, under threat of nastiness
Approaching the Haunted Mansion
Fantasyland
Teacups
Toontown boat house, and its lonely inhabitant
Me, eating a turkey leg in Frontierland
Thursday, February 22, 2007
gravity
This is my first time participating in Illustration Friday, yet another cool website that I found through Drawn! They give you a theme, you illustrate it, they post a thumbnail of your work (linking back to the original illustration), next to hundreds of other illustrators attacking the same theme. It's like bringing a piece to a class critique in art school, without all the long, awkward silences!
Wednesday, February 21, 2007
words fail
A little while back, I did an interview for Bookpage magazine, and in it, when I was asked if I had a message I would like to send to children, I said something awfully cliched, which was "never give up on your dreams" (I also said "beware of monkeys wearing wigs", which is just a terrifying thing to say to a kid, but I choked, and it was the first thing that popped into my head). The unfortunate thing is, I meant it (not the monkey part).
As inspirational advice goes, "never give up on your dreams" is right up there with "don't do drugs" and "stay in school." It doesn't mean anything, unless you know why the person saying it is saying it. I didn't have enough room on the questionnaire to give my reasons, mostly because it was taken up with a freakish drawing of, that's right, a monkey wearing a wig.
Had I had the space, I wouldn't have attempted anything profound. I'm not really qualified to. I've never had to overcome any major obstacles to achieve my goals, and no one has every told me I couldn't achieve them. I would have simply said that I never gave up on my dreams, and they came true. If that's not a good enough reason, then I don't have one.
And then I might have made the monkey's wig bigger. It looks kind of flat to me.
As inspirational advice goes, "never give up on your dreams" is right up there with "don't do drugs" and "stay in school." It doesn't mean anything, unless you know why the person saying it is saying it. I didn't have enough room on the questionnaire to give my reasons, mostly because it was taken up with a freakish drawing of, that's right, a monkey wearing a wig.
Had I had the space, I wouldn't have attempted anything profound. I'm not really qualified to. I've never had to overcome any major obstacles to achieve my goals, and no one has every told me I couldn't achieve them. I would have simply said that I never gave up on my dreams, and they came true. If that's not a good enough reason, then I don't have one.
And then I might have made the monkey's wig bigger. It looks kind of flat to me.
Tuesday, February 20, 2007
Monday, February 19, 2007
scrotum
My friend, Amy, sent the following NPR article to me this morning:
All Things Considered, February 18, 2007
This year's Newbery Medal winner Susan Patron is under fire because of language in her book The Higher Power of Lucky.
Some school librarians around the country have banned the book because it includes the word "scrotum" to describe where a dog gets a snake bite.
On the first page of the book, the heroine, a 10-year-old girl named Lucky, hears the word through a hole in a wall.
I, for one, am glad to hear it. I'm sick of filthy, dictionary words tainting my young adult fiction.
Ms. Patron, the next time you feel the need to include such a disgusting term, please consider these alternatives: nutsac, onion skin, or testicle-haven. I think such a compromise would please everyone. And that is the point of a book, after all, right?
All Things Considered, February 18, 2007
This year's Newbery Medal winner Susan Patron is under fire because of language in her book The Higher Power of Lucky.
Some school librarians around the country have banned the book because it includes the word "scrotum" to describe where a dog gets a snake bite.
On the first page of the book, the heroine, a 10-year-old girl named Lucky, hears the word through a hole in a wall.
I, for one, am glad to hear it. I'm sick of filthy, dictionary words tainting my young adult fiction.
Ms. Patron, the next time you feel the need to include such a disgusting term, please consider these alternatives: nutsac, onion skin, or testicle-haven. I think such a compromise would please everyone. And that is the point of a book, after all, right?
Saturday, February 17, 2007
Friday, February 16, 2007
Thursday, February 15, 2007
the dark is rising
It shouldn't come as a surprise to me, but I read this morning that they're turning one of my favorite books, The Dark is Rising, by Susan Cooper, into a movie, and it sounds like Ian McShane from Deadwood is in line to play Merriman Lyon, the mentor to the main protagonist of the story. I always pictured Merriman as looking like David Kelly from Waking Ned Devine and Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, if a little taller and buffer (one website suggested Christopher Lee for the role). But I've started warming to the idea:
With a prosthetic nose, a clean upper lip, and some white/gray hair, it just might work.
With a prosthetic nose, a clean upper lip, and some white/gray hair, it just might work.
Wednesday, February 14, 2007
good looking
It's weird, before I was asked to be on Drawn!, I had never heard of the website before, and now I can't go a day without looking at it. It's a source of inspiration, frustration, and depression all at once (the frustration and depression stemming from the incredible wealth of talent on display; it's sickening).
One of the featured websites that makes me want to throw up in my mouth, recently, is Sac Magigue. I wish I could draw and paint like this, but I'm too much of a control freak to ever let things be as weird and unfinished as some of Robin Ellis's (the not-so-secret identity of Sac Magigue) images. I keep on trying, anyway.
His work reminds me of another artist I kind of stumbled across by accident, Keith Herzik, whose website kept me sane over the six plus months of work on Hippo! No, Rhino. Whenever I got too tight, cursing my own hand for sabotaging my grand vision, for tainting my masterpiece, I'd pop on over there and remind myself that making pictures is fun.
By a similar accident, I also found the work of Jennifer Sullivan, who does some pretty cool stuff (paintings, marker drawings, sculpture) along the same lines as Robin and Keith. Her work has the immediacy of a drawing done over lunch period in middle school, while half-engaged in a conversation with your friends, and I couldn't mean that in a better way.
One of the featured websites that makes me want to throw up in my mouth, recently, is Sac Magigue. I wish I could draw and paint like this, but I'm too much of a control freak to ever let things be as weird and unfinished as some of Robin Ellis's (the not-so-secret identity of Sac Magigue) images. I keep on trying, anyway.
His work reminds me of another artist I kind of stumbled across by accident, Keith Herzik, whose website kept me sane over the six plus months of work on Hippo! No, Rhino. Whenever I got too tight, cursing my own hand for sabotaging my grand vision, for tainting my masterpiece, I'd pop on over there and remind myself that making pictures is fun.
By a similar accident, I also found the work of Jennifer Sullivan, who does some pretty cool stuff (paintings, marker drawings, sculpture) along the same lines as Robin and Keith. Her work has the immediacy of a drawing done over lunch period in middle school, while half-engaged in a conversation with your friends, and I couldn't mean that in a better way.
more fun with translation
On my Amazon.com blog (or "plog"), I wrote about what happens when Google tries to translate the Japanese language to English (to summarize, the results are as mixed-up and hilarious as an episode of Mama's Family). Now, I've found a review of Hippo! No, Rhino on Asuka's Booktree (complete with a little illustration of a camera next to it--in fact, all the reviews on the site include a picture of some object that appears in the reviewed book), that I'd really like to read, but, of course, it's in Japanese, too. From what I can make of it, it sounds really positive...or extremely negative. Or somewhere in between. All I know is that the second paragraph sounds like the most in-depth analysis of a picture book, ever. Then again, it may be the translated way to say "book=dumb". You decide for yourself:
In cover of picture book, “HIPPO! - - It is the hippopotamus!”In voice the face the rhinoceros of a head which grimaces. Dissatisfaction so, “it is different, it is the rhinoceros!”With the [bu] and it is. Signboard letter inside the zoo the [bu] of just one word and feelings story 'Hippo of the rhinoceros which is put together with coming! No and Rhino (Alex Toys)', the arrow “of the hippopotamus” was put out, “the rhinoceros” insisting oneself eagerly, until it recovers pride, the form is drawn. Everything originates with in the uncle present callous of the management person in charge whom between comes out.
The circumstance which is similar to the rhinoceros is thought sufficiently even in society and the school. If in the United States, it is placid, as the shadow is thin there is many a thing which faces disadvantageous circumstance. Unless you insist, unless (it is = complaint,) you make become aware, it is the society. Proverb (Squeaky wheel gets the oil.) even it is the extent which is. However the heart which is lacking in consideration after the lonesome social shelf you think, self insistence is recognized as proper right. So, only such people get together when, becomes the society which skinnily, frays, is, don't you think?. Now even now you do not know well whether it is good, whether how is.
As for story, the boy who the rhinoceros knows the thing of the rhinoceros being, one case settlement. So, the uncle cod of the pretending ignorance management person in charge, the fact that again it comes out is done.......
Illustration of the water color ink, is not with that, seventies winds. The uncle of the management person in charge with the long hair, also the person who comes out is what, only the Beatles like person. Complexion is green, is yellow, is blue. A little, perhaps the illustration which has habit.
In cover of picture book, “HIPPO! - - It is the hippopotamus!”In voice the face the rhinoceros of a head which grimaces. Dissatisfaction so, “it is different, it is the rhinoceros!”With the [bu] and it is. Signboard letter inside the zoo the [bu] of just one word and feelings story 'Hippo of the rhinoceros which is put together with coming! No and Rhino (Alex Toys)', the arrow “of the hippopotamus” was put out, “the rhinoceros” insisting oneself eagerly, until it recovers pride, the form is drawn. Everything originates with in the uncle present callous of the management person in charge whom between comes out.
The circumstance which is similar to the rhinoceros is thought sufficiently even in society and the school. If in the United States, it is placid, as the shadow is thin there is many a thing which faces disadvantageous circumstance. Unless you insist, unless (it is = complaint,) you make become aware, it is the society. Proverb (Squeaky wheel gets the oil.) even it is the extent which is. However the heart which is lacking in consideration after the lonesome social shelf you think, self insistence is recognized as proper right. So, only such people get together when, becomes the society which skinnily, frays, is, don't you think?. Now even now you do not know well whether it is good, whether how is.
As for story, the boy who the rhinoceros knows the thing of the rhinoceros being, one case settlement. So, the uncle cod of the pretending ignorance management person in charge, the fact that again it comes out is done.......
Illustration of the water color ink, is not with that, seventies winds. The uncle of the management person in charge with the long hair, also the person who comes out is what, only the Beatles like person. Complexion is green, is yellow, is blue. A little, perhaps the illustration which has habit.
Tuesday, February 13, 2007
Monday, February 12, 2007
Sunday, February 11, 2007
Friday, February 9, 2007
math lesson
That Lance Bark comic book has stirred up all sorts of memories, and some of them are kind of recent. Before I relay one, I should first say that, when I was in elementary and middle school, the paper that we worked on in math class wasn't called recycled paper, as I stated in that previous post. No, it was called math paper, but I said "recycled" paper because the last time I said "math" paper, I was stared at like I'd farted a ghost.
Anyway, when I was a kid, I used to draw on this "math" paper, not to mention graph paper, notebook paper, construction paper, and any other paper that was within arm's reach. And I didn't care what kind of materials I used to draw with. I didn't know the difference between a Rapidograph pen and a Marks-A-Lot marker (the kind that make you dizzy when you put it under your nose). I just drew. It was only in high school when I became aware that some art supplies were considered better than others, and college when this idea became firmly cemented in my brain.
I started to believe that (and this is no fault of my instructors, part of whose job was to suggest media that they had success with), I had to use Arches watercolor paper or Winsor & Newton acrylics to make pictures befitting a working illustrator. I guess, in the back of my mind, I thought that to use "lesser" materials would belie the fact that I was a professional, but I certainly wasn't conscious of this idea at the time.
Two years after I left college, I started working on my first picture book, Reginald, with Random House Children's Books (the Doubleday imprint, specifically), and about three months before I turned in the finished artwork (on high-quality Fabriano watercolor paper, no less), I was in New York visiting with my editor. She took me around the offices, and I got to meet a lot of the staff, including the publisher, Beverly Horowitz. On the way out of Beverly's office, I noticed a small, framed picture on the wall, an original cover drawing for one of James Marshall's George and Martha books (the one where they're in the hot air balloon) that Marshall himself had given to her. And guess what?
It was drawn on math paper with permanent markers. So, that was pretty neat.
Anyway, when I was a kid, I used to draw on this "math" paper, not to mention graph paper, notebook paper, construction paper, and any other paper that was within arm's reach. And I didn't care what kind of materials I used to draw with. I didn't know the difference between a Rapidograph pen and a Marks-A-Lot marker (the kind that make you dizzy when you put it under your nose). I just drew. It was only in high school when I became aware that some art supplies were considered better than others, and college when this idea became firmly cemented in my brain.
I started to believe that (and this is no fault of my instructors, part of whose job was to suggest media that they had success with), I had to use Arches watercolor paper or Winsor & Newton acrylics to make pictures befitting a working illustrator. I guess, in the back of my mind, I thought that to use "lesser" materials would belie the fact that I was a professional, but I certainly wasn't conscious of this idea at the time.
Two years after I left college, I started working on my first picture book, Reginald, with Random House Children's Books (the Doubleday imprint, specifically), and about three months before I turned in the finished artwork (on high-quality Fabriano watercolor paper, no less), I was in New York visiting with my editor. She took me around the offices, and I got to meet a lot of the staff, including the publisher, Beverly Horowitz. On the way out of Beverly's office, I noticed a small, framed picture on the wall, an original cover drawing for one of James Marshall's George and Martha books (the one where they're in the hot air balloon) that Marshall himself had given to her. And guess what?
It was drawn on math paper with permanent markers. So, that was pretty neat.
Thursday, February 8, 2007
making friends
There's an author/illustrator who's work I admire-let's call him Sir Albert Twomblypants-and after reading his (presumably) self-written biography on his website, and concluding that he seems like a really down-to-earth guy, I thought I'd write to him and say...uh...say...um...
Exactly. I don't know what to say, and so I still haven't written to him. Let me rephrase that: I do know what to say (I said it it the first paragraph-I really admire his work), but I'm worried that my primary intention isn't to compliment him (although I really do like his work).
I can't speak for other authors or illustrators, but I've found it incredibly difficult to meet and develop friendships with my peers. I'm not sure what I'm doing wrong, if I'm doing anything wrong, if my distance from the hub of the publishing world matters (I live in Milwaukee, Wisconsin, and it seems like every artist I know lives on the East Coast), if I smell like trash, or if it's some kind of combination of elements that are conspiring against my attempts at making friends. I can't even blame the fact that I'm shy, anymore, primarily because I'm thirty years old, and it's creepy to describe myself that way, but also because I'm not, one-on-one (groups of people are another story).
So, my lack of luck/skill/charisma in befriending fellow artists has, perhaps, led me to considering writing to someone to ask if he'll be my pal, under the guise of complimenting his work.
Did I mention I really do like his work?
Exactly. I don't know what to say, and so I still haven't written to him. Let me rephrase that: I do know what to say (I said it it the first paragraph-I really admire his work), but I'm worried that my primary intention isn't to compliment him (although I really do like his work).
I can't speak for other authors or illustrators, but I've found it incredibly difficult to meet and develop friendships with my peers. I'm not sure what I'm doing wrong, if I'm doing anything wrong, if my distance from the hub of the publishing world matters (I live in Milwaukee, Wisconsin, and it seems like every artist I know lives on the East Coast), if I smell like trash, or if it's some kind of combination of elements that are conspiring against my attempts at making friends. I can't even blame the fact that I'm shy, anymore, primarily because I'm thirty years old, and it's creepy to describe myself that way, but also because I'm not, one-on-one (groups of people are another story).
So, my lack of luck/skill/charisma in befriending fellow artists has, perhaps, led me to considering writing to someone to ask if he'll be my pal, under the guise of complimenting his work.
Did I mention I really do like his work?
Wednesday, February 7, 2007
it's a living, revisited
Posting that comic book from Fifth Grade got me wondering what Lance Bark would look like today. Not that different, as it turns out.
Tuesday, February 6, 2007
did you know?
One of my favorite illustrators, Evaline Ness (Caldecott winner for Sam, Bangs, and Moonshine, in addition to being the original cover illustrator for the greatest series of young adult fantasy novels ever written, The Chronicles of Prydain, by Lloyd Alexander) was the one-time wife of Eliot Ness, the American Prohibition agent who, along with his team, nicknamed The Untouchables, brought down legendary gangster Al Capone.
Monday, February 5, 2007
it's a living
When I was in Fifth Grade, and far more ambitious than I am now, I started drawing my own comic books to sell to my friends for a dollar a pop (a lucrative enterprise for me, as I could use my Dad's photocopier and stapler for free). I say "started", because I only made one, a seven-page story featuring a superhero I'd created. Shortly after I'd finished the comic, I upped the ante significantly, offering personalized comics (in which the buyer could suggest the story and/or characters, and I would provide the illustration) for seven dollars each. Unfortunately, I couldn't handle the stress of taking artistic direction from Matt Burrows on top of having to do a book report on The Incredible Journey, and that's more or less the point when the whole operation fell apart.
Thankfully, the original comic book, tucked away for years in a Garfield Trapper Keeper, survived (which is kind of miraculous, as it was drawn on the same recycled paper that I used to puzzle out my math homework).
Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Lance Bark, the Unsung Mutant in...THE GAMES (click on the images for larger versions)!
Thankfully, the original comic book, tucked away for years in a Garfield Trapper Keeper, survived (which is kind of miraculous, as it was drawn on the same recycled paper that I used to puzzle out my math homework).
Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Lance Bark, the Unsung Mutant in...THE GAMES (click on the images for larger versions)!
Sunday, February 4, 2007
Friday, February 2, 2007
the wrong idea
About a two years ago, I had a great idea for a picture book.
Seldom does an idea arrive so complete. I knew the story, almost top to bottom, before I had a chance to write down any of the details (although I did write a two-sentence summary of the plot). I was so excited by the idea that, when I called my friend Steve that night, I told him everything. Steve listened patiently (as he always does), as I described the story: it was to be called "The Golem", as I recall. The Golem was a monster who wakes up in the ruins of a castle with amnesia. Looking for his purpose, he wanders the countryside, meeting all sorts of colorful medieval types who immediately shun him due to his fearsome countenance. Understandably, this upsets the Golem, to the point where he takes out his frustration by destroying a house. This catches the attention of an evil warlord, who enlists the Golem to fight in his army.
"Now, here's where it gets a little fuzzy", I told Steve. "All I know is that he finally realizes his ultimate purpose is not to be destructive. Maybe he finds the plans of the scientist who constructed him, or something. Maybe he was supposed to be a gardener. Or a surrogate son for the scientist. Anyway, the general idea is that the even though he's a monster, physically, it's the world that makes him a monster, inside".
Steve said, "Hmmmm." And by the time the last "m" had sounded, I said:
"Oh. I just wrote Frankenstein. Again."
And in retrospect, I had also written Edward Scissorhands. Again. I'm not sold on the fact that all the good stories have been told, but I do know that most of the good stories have been told too many times. That's not to say that someone won't write another interesting take on Frankenstein. It just won't be me.
Probably.
Seldom does an idea arrive so complete. I knew the story, almost top to bottom, before I had a chance to write down any of the details (although I did write a two-sentence summary of the plot). I was so excited by the idea that, when I called my friend Steve that night, I told him everything. Steve listened patiently (as he always does), as I described the story: it was to be called "The Golem", as I recall. The Golem was a monster who wakes up in the ruins of a castle with amnesia. Looking for his purpose, he wanders the countryside, meeting all sorts of colorful medieval types who immediately shun him due to his fearsome countenance. Understandably, this upsets the Golem, to the point where he takes out his frustration by destroying a house. This catches the attention of an evil warlord, who enlists the Golem to fight in his army.
"Now, here's where it gets a little fuzzy", I told Steve. "All I know is that he finally realizes his ultimate purpose is not to be destructive. Maybe he finds the plans of the scientist who constructed him, or something. Maybe he was supposed to be a gardener. Or a surrogate son for the scientist. Anyway, the general idea is that the even though he's a monster, physically, it's the world that makes him a monster, inside".
Steve said, "Hmmmm." And by the time the last "m" had sounded, I said:
"Oh. I just wrote Frankenstein. Again."
And in retrospect, I had also written Edward Scissorhands. Again. I'm not sold on the fact that all the good stories have been told, but I do know that most of the good stories have been told too many times. That's not to say that someone won't write another interesting take on Frankenstein. It just won't be me.
Probably.
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