Think of my title as a question--- How to keep it going? Despite an ever-thickening folder of rejection letters, lack of funds, no contract in sight, and continual reports on how nobody's buying picture books.
This print is based on some xeroxes I did of my face back when I worked as a secretary. Yes, more office art, and it suits my current mood. I xeroxed my face alot, I must admit, and could that explain my forgetfulness or tangentialness?
Do you hear birds chirping where you are, too? Have you been watching the live owl nest cam?
I didn't want to blog because I'm feeling down. Because how do I keep it going when I've written so many stories I believe in and worked on my art for so many years without getting much in the way of financial compensation, which is how we define success in this culture, like it or not. Plus a girl's gotta eat!
Well, one way is to remember Jay Asher's talk at last year's SCBWI NY conference, "How to Get Published in Twelve Years or Less." And now he's a NYTimes Bestselling Author.
Or my friend Beth Revis who, after writing and subbing for years, finally landed a three-book deal with Penguin (go, Beth!)
I like the way that sounds: a three-book deal with Penguin
Or seek out an inspirational quote, like:
"And the day came when the risk to remain tight in a bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom" Anais Nin (thank you, Andrea)
Or remember my favorite scene from one of my favorite movies Kirikou and The Sorceress. Kirikou has been digging and digging trying to find his way out of a tunnel. He falls asleep saying "in the morning I'll turn back." And the image is Kirikou asleep against a thin wall of dirt. He wakes up, digs a little more, and he's made it to the other side.
Last night before I went to sleep, I thought, 'what would I have been if I hadn't chosen to be a painter, illustrator, and writer?" And I realized there really never was a choice. This is who I am, and this is what I must do.
So maybe I'll get a few more rejection letters this week. Or maybe I'm just about to break through that wall.
Now how do you keep it going?
The first one is from 1996. The second one is from today. So what's changed since 1996?
I cut my hair (and dye it now.) I got married. My mother died (in 2000.) The twin towers. I had a baby (in 2003.)
I stopped drawing for awhile there, though I was doing some wild abstract paintings. A few months after Madeline was born, I wrote a picture book. A few years ago, I bought myself a new set of rapidographs. And a bunch of woodless pencils (my favorite kind of pencil!) and a few china markers (hard to unravel.) So I'm drawing again.
But what else is different? I feel like I hardly know that bold, confident young woman from 1996. Before all that crap happened. Before I spent so much time worrying about my parenting skills, or lack of. She looks so carefree.
I am not carefree. But I do have my set of rapidographs and a brand new bottle of ink.
And I've written a bunch more books. And I am more likely now to go to conferences and talk to people I don't know. I am more able now to send my stories and drawings out into the world and greet rejection letters with a 'that's okay; I'll just keep trying." I am more able to say "I'm an artist." Because I really am. So maybe this is the new, bolder Constance, after all. The one who is writing a blog in 2010. Which is something I never would have done (technology notwithstanding) in 1996!
This weekend I was at Spring Mingle, a fabulous SCBWI conference in Atlanta. I met and heard agent Josh Adams, literary legend Jane Yolen, and two amazing editors, Cheryl Klein and Meredith Mundy. I heard so much useful, helpful information on craft and on submitting. On the history and the current state of publishing. On persevering and persevering some more. I was surrounded by people who love kids books as much as I do, which is one of the best reasons to go to a conference!
And then there were the puns. My god, the puns. Come up with a kids-lit related pun and win a lunch date (kinda) with one of the presenters. I went to the conference (and roomed!) with two critique group buddies, and we were each successful punners,
with: When little rabbit's pjs fell down, old rabbit saw his goodnight moon. (or something)
and: Paddington tried to hibernate one winter, but he just couldn't bear it.
and: What happened when frog parked in the fire lane? He was towed.
So much happened in the course of three days, I've been thinking on how to blog about it and it's making my head hurt. BUT I can show you some sketches.
Because drawing is what I do.
Like this one I did in the Beauty Bar in Manhattan. Isn't she great?
In My Dinner with Andre, Andre says: I could always live in my art but never in my life. (or something)
I can live in my life sometimes. I just try to draw what I can. Like this rabbit in my yard.
Yes, I know I'm no Beatrix Potter. But we used to live in Brooklyn, so what d'ya want from me?
Mostly I'm drawing Madeline. And she's drawing me.
So what did you learn at your conference?
Oh, and thanks for the wine, Donna. And thanks for the chocolates, Ameliann. And thanks for saving me a seat at the agent's table, Andrea. I appreciate you guys!
Why crows?
Loud enough to startle you when you're walking across the yard. Black enough to leave their imprint on the sky. I love to see them menacing their way across the frozen grass. Or sitting so high on a branch, screaming to the heavens.
I wrote this poem:
What Crow Know
Crow watch- wonder
how we do
without wings, pale things
ground-bound, so down
Up
sail Crow
in blackness, forgetting
limp limbs- thin lips
which no can crow or-
Caw!
Crow fly fast.
A blot of ink circle my
sun- my blue- and more
amass, a murder of
Crow-
So bead eyes in tree,
what see- what see-
me? growing slow
caw!
Crow know
Crow go.
go.
I read this poem today and realized I wrote it two years ago when I was diagnosed with breast cancer. But I was lucky.
As a matter of fact, I got my mammogram results today-- and everything's okay. I even have a poem.
I want to dedicate this to all the many women who are dealing with or have dealt with breast cancer. Please share your story. Do a painting, write in your journal, do a drawing. Or write a poem. And imagine how great it will feel to look back years later and see what you made.
This self-portrait, from 1999 maybe, was obviously influenced by Frida Kahlo. I really got into Frida's amazing art in my early 20s.
Interesting that her first self-portrait (or so) looks like a Modigliani.
So she wanted to be Modigliani. I wanted to be Frida.
When I was in middle school, I read a book by Andy Warhol and wanted to be him too (maybe his art didn't influence me but his big dose of COOL sure did!)
In high school, I was fortunate enough to take figure drawing at a local university. Then I briefly wanted to be DaVinci (but we all want to be him at some point, right?)
I've also wanted to be Egon Schiele, Chaim Soutine, Alice Neel and Jackson Pollock (who wins the best quote of the universe with (when asked if he painted from nature): "I am Nature.")
Nowadays I'd like to be a combination of William Steig, Arnold Lobel and Beatrix Potter. Maybe with a pinch of Mo Willems.
Or I could just pinch Mo Willems. He's so cute!
Did someone just break into a chorus of "I gotta be me"?
Yes, I know, I gotta be me. I wanna be me. But I also want to take a blogmoment to thank all the artists and writers in the world for putting it out there so I could find it. And maybe borrow a little bit. Thank you all for keeping it going.
Now, who do you want to be?
Check out the really fun contest at this wonderful blog: http://www.faeriality.blogspot.com/
I'd say more about it, but I'm on Day 4 with a sick and irritable birthday girl :(
Not me!
Madeline is seven today. A very grouchy seven. But cute.
Madeline drew this portrait-- of me! I only wish I were so glamorous, but I do think she caught my essence.
On our morning walk to school today, she said, "Mom, is it true that snakes used to have legs?"
Thrown somewhat by the unexpected question and early hour, I replied, "No. Yes. Maybe. I don't know. Why?"
"Well," she said, "if we evolved, then snakes must have evolved too."
"And, " she added, as my head continued to spin, "can you believe we started being a million years ago? We were covered with hair. Lots of it. And then, in 1492, .... oh, no, that was something else."
Madeline pauses for a breath.
"We're having punch tomorrow!"
for their Valentine's Day party, of course. This disjointed thinking, this jumping from one concept to the next is what makes my husband observe at times that having a kid is like living with a crazy person. I think it may also be somehow the seed of creativity.
After all, tomorrow is Valentine's Day.
And we used to be covered in hair!
Now, who wants some punch?
I admit it. I miss New York. Yes I complained about the constant noise, nerve-jarring commotion, hectic pace and the subway.
What? I complained about the subway? Hard to believe. Because the subway was like one endless free figure drawing class. I'd steal glances or find people who were sleeping, reading or too spaced out/tired to notice. Or I'd just look at the whole car and assume an expression of someone who's attention was somewhere else, and try to draw the whole scene. There's so much going on in every car: musicians, poets, sleeper, dreamers, angry old people and crying babies. People from every corner of the world.
One time a young man approached me (and everyone's in their own private tiny cramped space on the subway and does not want to be approached--- there's probably at least one crazy person per subway car and you never know)
You an artist? he asked me.
Yes, I am. I said, hoping he wasn't going to yell at me for staring at his girlfriend or something.
Want to draw me?
Sure!
And there he is. Abe. 23 years old. February 14, 1998.
I drew him. He smiled. I offered to give him the drawing.
No, he said. You keep it.
Valentine's Day. I guess Abe wanted to give me a little something special. Thanks, Abe!
Concetta Lombardo, born Montalto, in Sicily, Italy in 1901. My grandmother.
She could barely read or write. Her father took all his daughters out of school when he discovered one of Concetta's sisters had been passing notes with a boy. Concetta moved to New York city after she got married at age twenty. She never learned English very well. Her family understood her, but with her very thick accent, strangers often could not.
She could make something amazingly delicious using the simplest ingredients. Lasagna to die for. Homemade pasta. And the pizza, my god, the pizza. We loved her food and her natural warmth. We loved her for the rental cabin at the beach, into which she squished an unfathomable number of grandchildren. Cooked for us daily, carrying real china to the beach for a wonderful and unique picnic. Spaghetti on the beach!
And we loved her stories.
She said she got them from the radio. The one about the man who wanted to send figs to his brother through a telegraph office. The mouse who fell into the spaghetti sauce to meet his tragic end, leaving behind his bereft cat-wife. The king who learned the importance of salt. She would sit you in her lap and start talking and the world would melt away. Just the sound of that beautiful Italian-English.
Once when I was older Concetta asked me to tell her a story. I couldn't think of anything to say. And then I started telling her about all the people I'd seen in the East Village (in the 80s): girls with blue hair sticking out in spikes around their head, wearing jeans that were deliberately ripped. Boys with multiple safety pins in their ears. She laughed and laughed at my stories.
I knew my descriptions were not as wonderful as her stories. But I also knew she was happy to hear me talking, telling her about the strange world around us. We talked and shared stories to talk and share our love for each other.
If she was here today, I would love to tell her the stories I'm writing now. Of colorful snails, braggy turtles and lonely seagulls. I think she might like them. And I'd like to be able to thank her for showing me the wonders of storytelling.
Yes, I do. So thanks, Grandma Lombardo.
This one doesn't look like me.
I did it without a mirror at my desk on the piece of cardboard at the end of the memo pad with magic marker and white-out. That's right. Office art.
How I used to make that white-out and those bright pink post-it notes work for me! I made tiny flip books. I photo-copied my face repeatedly. So did a friend of mine, and she faxed one to me with the words, "Help, I'm trapped in the copier!"
Not very funny, I know. We should have been doing our jobs. Answering phones. Filing. Even filing our nails. But we just couldn't resist the lure of too many notepads, staplers, markers, date stamps and paper clips.
I'm sure some of you have used your valuable work hours to make art (and you know who you are!) You could call it a shameful indulgence on someone else's dime.
Or you could call it an act of rebellion.
So how 'bout we have an online exhibition. Of all the ways you let your creativity burst out while trapped in the copier.
I'll start with this piece.
My husband's a great musician. And I admit that's partly why I fell in love with him. When I first met him he was playing the bass. What's sexier than that? When I met him the second time around he was playing guitar. And uke. And steel guitar. Sometimes even the drums. And then he bought a trumpet. And then (it only gets worse) a banjo.
Living with a musician is not as fun as seeing a musician at a gig. All that jamming on licks and riffs on his axe (impressed with the musician lingo yet?) It's the same notes over and over and over and over while he's learning a song. Sometimes lots of other musicians come over. It gets pretty loud around here. And let's not forget the incessant whistling. And humming. The guy practically sings in his sleep.
So I wrote this poem:
Oh What a Noisy Daddy!
My Daddy is always whistling
or clapping or humming or singing!
Oh, no, here he comes with his banjo,
Please, daddy dear, can you play so-low?
Our house overflows with his trumpets
basses, ukeleles and drum kits!
He’s even got two ancient sitars,
and goodness knows how many guitars!
Says Dad: Understand my position,
It’s not my fault I’m a musician!
So now he's teaching my daughter how to play the uke. I may have to build myself a sound-proof room. In the meantime, they're pretty cute playing music together. Adorable, actually.
Sometimes they even let me sing along.
Yes, I'm one of those moms who had a kid and started reading kids books and said, "I can do that!"
Not that "that" is that easy! And not to disparage moms. My critique group consists largely of moms who write. At writers conferences and in SCBWI chapters across the country--moms who write. These are some tough and talented moms we're talking (and you know who you are).
So sometimes your kid is your muse. Mine certainly is. Just look at her. Put a bowler hat on her head and a whole new world is born.
She gives me new ideas daily. Yesterday it was The Grouchy Kitty. When I pointed out that sounded a bit like Bad Kitty, she said, "Oh, this kitty isn't bad. Just grouchy. All he really wants is a hug."
One of my stories evolved from when she was three, stomping around the house and banging an imaginary drum. Suddenly she stopped and said, "But that wasn't enough music for those monsters!"
Another time she showed me her drawing of a boy with a cape and swirls of color coming out of every body part. Who's that? I asked. "Mom!" she replied, shocked at my ignorance, "It's Colorman!"
Of course, not all my stories are based on Madeline-isms. One came out of a dream I had where I was playing catch with a squirrel. We had a lot of fun, that squirrel and me.
Who is your muse? Or how do your kids inspire you?
Here is the second in my self-portrait series. I thought it would be great to search through all my many sketchbooks and find my self-portraits and organize them so I could say, this is the first self-portrait I ever did, when I was four years old, this is the second self-portrait I ever did, when I was four and 1/8 years old, etc. That sure would have been great!
Unfortunately, even though I'm a hard worker, I'm also extremely lazy (you know what I'm talking about!) so while sitting at my computer and thinking---- yes, I really should organize those drawings.... I glanced down at my nearby bookshelf and saw this old sketchbook sticking out and Voila!
So, no, this is not the first one but it's from 1996, when I was 14 years younger than I am today and a wee bit thinner. It was the days of olde before I had my daughter, which was basically another lifetime (I see some of you moms (and dads!) nodding your heads)
Also done with rapidograph. This was not a very happy time in my life as I think you can see. I never actually noticed it before. I just thought it was a pretty cool drawing.
But looking at it now, I can see the dark cloud over my head. And that might be one of the great things about drawing and specifically about self-portraits. A way to make a visual journal of your life. The good with the bad. And I'm not going to say It's all good! because some of it is awful. But it's your life, so better pay attention.
So how about doing a self-portrait of your own self? I'd love to see it!
I find myself writing about slow-moving animals. I have two picture books featuring snails (and a turtle makes a cameo in each of these) Plus there's a poem My Turtle Ran Away. And also How to Serve Banana Slugs.
I don't like creepy, crawly, flying things and they're never welcome in my home (and you know who you are!) But if I'm stepping onto my first step to step up onto my porch, and there's a slug, I have to look down and say, "I know how you feel."
Have you heard the one about the guy who hears a knock on his door? He opens the door, looks down and sees a snail. So he picks the snail up and hurls him out to the street.
Two years later, he hears another knock. Opens the door and there's the snail again, saying,
"What was all that about?"
Now let's not forget turtles. They look like they've seen it all and know much more than you do, right? When I was a kid, I had a poster in my room that said, "A turtle only gets ahead by sticking out his neck." Now I never was big on sticking out my neck. But I liked looking at that drawing every day.
A couple of years ago I bought a small painting by Asheville artist Moni Hill. It's got a sweet little turtle on it and the words:
We have very little time. We must move very slowly -Zen proverb
It's been hanging on my daughter's door ever since, and, even though it has not slowed my little girl down one bit, I like looking at that painting.
So if you see me around town, moving very slowly, now you know why.
Now tell me what animals you like to draw or write poems about or see on your porch.
My first drawings were of the rock stars on those great big cds they used to make (they were called albums back then)--Cat Stevens, Mick Jagger, Elvis Costello.
Later I got into self-portraits, which are still some of my favorite drawings. Whenever I find myself feeling foggy and confused, which is increasingly often, I go down to my studio (meaning, drawing table) and draw myself.
This is a new one. Drawn with a new rapidograph. I loved my rapidograph in high school and all through college but gave it up for my brushes, pencils and paints. Recently I bought one again. Feels a little technical, but okay.
I've always thought it would be way cool to have an exhibit of all my years of self-portraits--- from my teen years to my mature self. So maybe I'll start that exhibit right now. Right here. With this drawing from December 2009.
Just north of Who-ville, as I'm sure you all knew! Welcome to the first day of my first post of my first blog. Ever! Named for my favorite line in children's literature:
Three thousand feet up! Up the side of Mt. Crumpit,
He rode with his load to the tip top to dump it!
from How The Grinch Stole Christmas! by Dr. Seuss, as I'm sure you all knew!
One of my favorite lines. There are so many to choose from. Like:
And the Banderilleros were mad and the Picadores were madder and the Matador was so mad he cried because he couldn't show off with his cape and sword.
From The Story of Ferdinand by Munro Leaf-- you knew that one, right?
Speaking of literary references, I found this fascinating line from an oft-misquoted Emily Dickinson poem:
How dreary - to be - Somebody!
How public - like a Blog -
I didn't even know they had blogs back then!
Okay, Emily Dickinson did not have a blog. But don't you wish she did?
So, gentle reader, here is my question to you: whose blog do you wish you could read? I mean, if you could go back in a time machine and invent blogs so long ago that even Jane Austen could have had one, if she wanted (and you know she would!)
Thanks for visiting my first blog. Ever!
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By praying, writing even when I don't want to, and by visiting with my blog friends who understand my journey. :-)