No doubt he was right. This surgery has been the most painful experience of my life. Had I known about the pain, I wouldn't have had the surgery. Before the surgery, the pain was nagging. But now it's fierce! I don't do pain well. Guess that explains why my surgeon never mentioned it.
The procedure itself was no big deal. After a hospital technician hooked me up to an IV, we discussed bodybuilding and powerlifting (yes, she was a powerlifter). Before I knew what was happening, I found myself waking up groggy, next to my wife and a nurse, who were trying to rig my arm into a sling.
The nerve block rendered my arm numb for 24 hours. My arm felt dead. I couldn't move my fingers or feel my wife's touch. After several hours, I grew impatient waiting to get my feeling back. But when that happened, my shoulder and arm burned like fire. My hand swelled so fat, my son kept giving me compliments on how "smooth and young" my fingers looked.
The night after the numbness wore off, I slept upright on a chair in the family room. But I couldn't fall asleep. I just couldn't get comfortable. The sling was awkward, but without it my arm felt like it was hanging from my shoulder by a hot nerve. Pain, pain, pain! And as each day passed, things got worse. The chair caused neck and back pain. Finally I started sleeping in the bed, but if I turned in my sleep and made the wrong movement, the pain caused me to awake myself — and my wife — to an involuntary yell.
The first couple of days following surgery, I was on Vicodin. But I stopped taking it because the stuff made me drunk. Don't get me wrong, I don't mind being intoxicated from time to time. In fact, against my wife's wishes, I oftentimes get myself that way intentionally. But Vicodin puts me to sleep, too. So finally, I started using over-the-counter Tylenol, and just tolerated the pain best I could.
My doctor prescribed a series of gentle exercises that would prevent my shoulder from getting stiff, but he warned not to lift my arm any higher than my waist. I wish. Thing is, 11 days after surgery, my arm still dangles from my shoulder, limp like a spaghetti noodle, when it's not in a sling. I couldn't lift it as high as my waist even if I wanted to.
I started training on a Mac in the early 90s. At the time, I was working as a publication designer for an educational publishing company. As the art department made the transition from drawing board to computers, we had many discussions about how the computer would affect the future of commercial art. We knew the future would never be the same. No more Zip-A-Tone or Letraset. No more rapidographs for ruling lines. No more Amberlith cutting for prepress. No more hot waxers. Have I aged myself?
Although we all agreed the computer would change production art, none of us believed it would ever replace pens, pencils, brushes, paint. Even early versions of Painter — which I dabbled with a little — didn't produce anything that remotely resembled natural media. But that has certainly changed.
I use Adobe Illustrator every day in my work. I have since day one, and I love it. I've used Photoshop and Painter to create special effects in my illustrations, too. And I've used Painter's clone technique to make a photo look hand painted. But I hadn't had any real success freehand painting on the computer, mimicking natural media — paint, chalk or pencil. I just couldn't wrap my mind around the concept of digital brushes. But suddenly, I'm coming around. With a point in the right direction from the amazing CY, freehand sketching and painting in Photoshop is starting to make more sense. I doodled the above with digital brushes that mimic pencils, using my Wacom. I didn't say it was a good example, so stop laughing. Plus I do all my digital work with my left hand — long story — even though I'm right handed. But I'm on my way.
This is a recent illustration that ran in Saturday's paper. It's for a Features story about the Texas governor candidates, their hair, and what it says about them.
I was happy with the end result, thought I captured the likenesses well. I was a little nervous, though. Politics these days are so . . . touchy. Have you read the comments section of any online news story? Pure evil lives there. Figured I'd get a bunch of hate mail from readers unhappy with how I portrayed their political heroes. Thankfully, that didn't happen. As far as I know of.
Pictured are Governor Rick Perry (whose hair has it's own twitter account), Kay Bailey Hutchison, Debra Medina, Farouk Shami grasping a hot comb, Bill White.
I rendered this with Adobe illustrator and added brush effects in Photoshop.
The other day, my lit agent sends an editorial letter to me along with my manuscript. He tells me to take a deep breath before I read it. Says I should read with an open mind, and then set it aside for a few days before I address any changes. He even invites me to curse him out if it makes me feel better.
WTF?
I know some authors cringe at the idea of an agent doing anything other than selling their works. But for me, a first-time author with one book under my belt, I welcome guidance from an agent and one-time children's book editor. I can rest assured that when my manuscript hits the market, it will be polished and print ready.
So I open the letter and read his suggestions, and I'm relieved. There's lots and lots of red marks! Lots of questions. Lots of suggested changes. This is good. I've been an illustrator for little over 26 years. I've been writing for 6, I have absolutely no training as a writer, other than online courses and SCBWI conferences. Had he returned the manuscript with no mark-ups, I'd have been suspicious.
I've sat the manuscript aside, but only because my hands are full with other stuff right now. I'll pick it up again later this week. I'm feeling really good about the direction this manuscript has taken, and I'm much more hopeful about my future as an author.
And he's also talked me into creating some spec sketches and paintings, so that I can propose myself as the author and illustrator, something I had decided against, preferring to focus my time on the next manuscript.
(Photo borrowed from author
Jo Whittemore's Facebook page, and thanks to the mother-in-law for my favorite sweater.)
The Austin SCBWI Destination Publication 2010 conference was a total success. The speakers were topnotch. The organizers were gracious and tireless. The attendees enthusiastic and energized.
Highlights (for me): Hanging out with my literary agent,
MarkMcVeigh. On Friday afternoon, after picking him up from the airport, and getting him checked in to his hotel, we sat down and discussed my work. He offered valuable feedback on three of my manuscripts, and we discussed a plan of action for getting them ready for sale. We also discussed my YA novel WIP, now at over 10,000 words, first draft.
After discussing my manuscripts, we, um, went shopping. My wife will never believe it, but I did. And I didn't complain or make a mean face, not once, I don't think. When Mark's not agenging, he is a treasure hunter of vintage clothing, so I took him to several Goodwill and Salvation Army stores. He schooled me about clothing and designer labels, ties, men's and women's shoes, purses. Did you know that Prada was much more than a word in a movie title? Mark is a class act. Unfortunately for him, though, Austin is more about cargo shorts and flip-flops, so he didn't find Couture anything. But I found something:
THE LITTLE RASCALS remastered on VHS, for $1.00.
Other highlights:
--The pre-conference party at the home of Greg and Cynthia Leitich-Smith. The food, yum! I didn't go the the post conference party. I'm not exactly a socialite, so after one party and a full day of conferencing, I just needed to get away from people and hide.
--Caldecott Honor illustrator Marla Frazee's keynote, followed by a sit-down discussion with author Liz Garton Scanlon. They discussed their true collaboration on the book, ALL THE WORLD. I was so affected by the discussion that I will never approach a picture book project the same. I think through my picture books before sketching, of course. I plan and I create thumbnails, too. But Marla takes this process to a much higher level. She raised the bar, and I spent much of the evening considering how I need to change my work habits to reach that level. I was amazed by Liz. I already knew she was talented. I've had the honor of reading a few of her WIPs. But I didn't know the backstory behind ALL THE WORLD. Wow, she's truly a rock star.
--Chatting with up-and-comer illustrator-author
Clint Young. If you don't recognize that name, you soon will. Believe me.
--Hanging out with award-winning illustrator
Mike Benny.
So this guy sends an email, asking me for writing advice. Says he’s looking for a “good older writer” to make his stuff better.
Cute.
Anyway, I’m honored he thinks I’m a good writer, and I’m thankful he offered his compliments. But instead of responding to him directly, I’m quickly posting a few tips.
1. Write everyday. Doesn’t matter what you write – stories, poems, whatever. Just write.
2. Read everyday. Yes, it does matter what you read. Read the kind of stuff you want to write. Want to write novels? Read lots of novels. Want to write poetry? Read lots of poetry.
3. Join a writers group. SCBWI is a good one. If you’re in Texas, The Writer’s League of Texas is another. But there are others elsewhere. In these groups, you’ll find lots of writers like yourself who are asking the same questions, and lots and lots of published writers who can answer them.
4. Take a writing course. Now if you’re like me, you don’t have time and can’t afford one. But that’s no excuse. There’s lots of online resources that can teach you about correct grammar, punctuation and general writing tips. Where do you think I learned to write bad metaphors.
5. Um, write some more. Practice makes perfect. Revise (throw it away, start over).
Of course there’s more, at least there is when you get more into storytelling. Voice. Point of view. Tense. Story and character arc. Rising and falling action. Similes . . . on and on and on and on. Just enough stuff to make you want to pull your hair out. But that will come later. For now, simply write. And have fun!
And please forgive my typos and spelling and grammar, because I'm learning, too.
Specific advice to the guy who wrote the letter to me: Spell it out. “R U happy 4 me?” is a great way to express yourself in a text message. But probably a bad habit to lose early on, though keep in mind, all rules are made to be broken.
"Ain't nothing like a fresh pair of baggies," Morris Day of The Time sang, in a popular 80s song. That was my mantra in high school, too. Baggies were a style of pants kids wore back in the day. Don’t confuse them with the sagging, thug-style pants kids wear today. Baggies were dressier. Inspired by the zoot-suit style pants of the 20s, baggies were usually pleated at the waist, extra roomy in the leg, narrow at the ankle. They were worn high on the belly, sometimes with wide suspenders. I had a pair in every color of the rainbow — slacks and jeans.
The summer before my senior year, my uncle took a buddy of mine and I to Kansas City to purchase baggies at Harold Pener, an urban men’s wear store. The pants were sold at stores in Des Moines, too. But we wanted baggies like no one else had. We wanted big-city baggies!
When we arrived in Kansas City, my uncle got out the car and led the way into the store. He walked with a strut. A "pimp walk," as we used to call it. That’s where you stick your chest out, skip-step one foot forward, twisting at the waist. Then s-l-o-w-l-y drag your other foot forward while bouncing your head like you’re listening to James Brown. It’s a slow and artful cadence. Don't try this out in public if you ain't cool, you'll look like a dweeb.
My friend snickered, reached over and poked me in the back and then pointed ahead. My uncle wore a cheap pair of sneakers. His green warm-up suit was a size too tight, with one pant leg rolled up to his knee. He topped-off this outfit an apple hat, his salt-and-pepper afro jutting out in every direction, like it wanted to escape from the scene.
"Your uncle looks like he works for some kind of senior citizen pimp squad," my friend said, laughing.
I didn't laugh. Well, maybe I did, I was 17.
My uncle was a well-known barber, the coolest of cool dudes in the Black community. I loved him. He had a slightly oversized belly, just like his dad, my grandpa. It stuck out beyond his body, even though he wasn't an overweight man. He was in his mid 40s, but had been ageless to me up until that second.
For the first time, I began to see my uncle as an old man. Wrinkles suddenly appeared on his face. His salt-and-pepper gray hair suddenly got saltier. His pimp walk wasn’t so cool. I promised myself I'd never grow old, or at least not look old. I'd stay in shape. Never get an oversized belly. Never let my hair go grey. I'd always dress in the current styles of the day. And I’d never, ever, pimp walk.
Fast forward almost 30 years. I stopped at a convenience store after dropping my son off at school. When I got out of my car, guess who I saw in the window of the store: My uncle. An older Black man with graying hair, wearing a warm-up suit (one leg rolled up), cheap sneakers. I laughed out loud because it wasn't my uncle after all. It was me last month. That 17-year-old kid would not have approved.
Today's my birthday. I'm 46-years-old. One year past 45. Closer now to 50, than 40. I'm a grandfather, too, with three grandchildren. Four, possibly five or six, if my daughter doesn't slow down soon.
I'm OK with being 46. I'm still here, alive and kicking. All of my body pieces still work. I have a wonderful family, a career that I love, a bright future. And I have friends, too. I've never been able to say that until recently.
I do struggle with the belly-thing. My pant size is at 33, down from 34 at my largest. But I'm in better shape now than that 17 year-old kid who wore a size 27 baggie, smoked cigarettes for breakfast, lunch and dinner, and never worked out a day in his life. I’m good. And I’ve never pimp walked.
Just a few Halloween illustrations that ran in the paper this weekend, for a story about your scary social networking friends — people like your parents, or those who offer links to things everyone already knows about.
First off, I'm not venting. I'm simply highlighting a recent project that proved difficult. Everything isn't always ice cream and bubble gum here. It's not always easy. Sometimes it's work. Here's how it went:
They basically provided me with this photograph, and asked me to render it in a loose, painterly style.
Here's a portion of my sketch and the final painting:
They didn't like it. They thought the girl looked older in the painting than in the photo (which, I agree, she does), and they thought, not very attractive.
So, I created this new sketch, with a focus on making her more attractive.
They didn't like the revision, and I didn't like the idea of trying to make her more attractive. More attractive to who? I also felt the sketch no longer looked like the girl in the photo.
So, I sent this revised sketch, making her eyes bigger. I thought it worked. They didn't like it.
So I sent this new sketch. They didn't like it.
So I sent another sketch. They didn't like it.
So they sent this new photo, which they felt was more attractive, and asked me to render it instead.
And I created this sketch.
The project was canceled. Not because of my work, they said. But because both photos are of a famous person, and there are copyright issues that weren't considered. On to my next project.
Again, I'm not complaining. I got paid fairly for my work. The publisher is one of the best, and the art director was absolutely fabulous, one of the sweetest people I've ever worked with.
I was there on opening day, and I wanted to hate the movie. I wanted to leave the theater cursing the director. How dare someone ruin the best picture book ever with Muppets and actors. I entered the theater with a mixture of bad attitude and anxious anticipation. But I left eagerly awaiting its release on DVD. I absolutely loved it.
My wife wasn't interested in seeing WHERE THE WILD THINGS ARE, and my son was afraid, so I went alone. Good thing I did, because he would have been scared, and we would have left early. He would have slept in bed with my wife and I for weeks following.
It was totally a fun experience. I especially enjoyed comparing the differences between the movie and the book, though I think they did a good job of keeping to the basic premise of the story — kid misbehaves, makes his mother angry, takes a trip to a far-off island, becomes king of the Wild Things.
In the book, Max is sent to his room, which then transforms into a jungle. But in the movie, he runs off into the night, comes upon a boat, and sails off toward the island. Little details, like the explosive mishap with his mother — tipsy from a glass of wine, and kissy-kissy with a boyfriend, made the story-line more true to contemporary life.
I loved the monsters. Visually, they were right on target. They perfectly matched the cross-hatched characters from the book, and their adult personalities added icing to the cake. They reminded me of people I know, which suggests I know quite a few crazy folk. My favorite part of the movie was when Carol shared with Max his hand-made model of the island. It represented his dream of a perfect, happy, kingdom, which he didn't believe could ever happen. But Max convinced Carol to believe, and all the Wild Things came together to build the fort, based upon the model. Nice job of filling in details left to the imagination in the book.
There were some uncomfortable moments, too. Quite a few actually. The scenes with the owls, Bob and Terry, who were abruptly, and brutally, stoned to the ground in mid-flight by KW, the Hippy-ish Wild Thing, and love interest to Carol. My stomach turned when the birds were stoned, and I never quite figured out if they were truly friends of the Wild Things, or unwilling captives.
I thought the dirt fight was distasteful, too. It reminded me of a real-life brick fight I had as a child, which, just like Alexander, the littlest (and sweetest) of the Wild Things, left me bloodied with a gash in my skull. The scene was cruel, and my son would not have liked it. And the scene with Douglas' wing getting ripped off — ack! They could have left that scene out.
I was afraid the movie would render the book irrelevant to future generations of kids. What kid would want to read the book, in it's simplicity, after seeing the movie? But no worries, WHERE THE WILD THINGS ARE is not a movie for kids. So give the kiddos the book, leave them at home, and go enjoy the movie without them.
I had my first experience with broadcast television in college. My cousins and I read for a part in a movie to be filmed at a local movie studio in Des Moines. One of my older cousins actually snagged a starring role, and I was called back to fill in as an extra. They told me to bring a few friends.
The next couple of weeks were on-and-off with the movie studio. My friends and I would show up at the set only to be told to go home and wait for another call. After we finally got the call, we ended up sitting in a room in the back of the studio for two days straight, sleeping on cots and eating. They fed us well even if they only paid us $50.
I finally got my chance behind camera toward the end of the second day. My part: A gang member. They tied my head up with a bandana scarf, and had me lay on a hospital gurney, as though I'd been beaten up in a gang fight. I laid there, breathed hard, occasionally moaned. That was the extent of my movie career.
But yesterday I had the opportunity to star in my own half-hour presentation to students all over the Killeen school district. The shoot was held in the studios of Channel 17, at the Jackson Professional Learning Center. The segment is now running every two hours and will continue to do so over the next year. I had the option of having the segment broadcast to a wider Texas audience, and even to have it available to schools as a downloadable podcast. But I worried about losing future school visit opportunities, so I opted to keep the broadcast local to Killeen.
The audience of 4th graders was very quiet at first, subdued. They didn't respond much to questions or applaud. My readings were followed by an awkward silence. But I think they were nervous. They were on TV, too, surrounded by three huge cameras, and sitting in the dark. But half way through the presentation they loosened up. They asked great questions and interacted with me quite enthusiastically.
Good thing I'm past my fear of public speaking (for the most part), because the experience behind camera — with 50,000 kids watching — would have freaked me out. It was a fun day and a very nice opportunity. Once I get the raw footage, I plan to edit together an abridged version to use as promotion for my school visit program.
Next on the program, a SKYPE school visit, direct from my home studio, with high school kids looking on. What fun that'll be!
(click here and scroll down to see photos from an older tv segment)
This is a recent illustration I did for the newspaper where I work. The story was about . . . well, do I really have to say?
So there we were, me, my wife and my then 16-year-old daughter, near an air pump at a South Austin convenience store, unsuccessfully trying to stuff an inflatable sofa into the back of my pickup. Can you picture this? Well, this scene played out within the first month after we moved to Austin.
The sofa was my wife's idea. Before we'd moved to Austin, she insisted we sell our living room furniture. She never liked our set because I'd purchased it before we got married and, apparently, she had a dislike for overstuffed brown and plaid tweed.
Actually, she'd insisted many times before that we get rid of the furniture, but I was more of a practical person. Sofas were for sitting, not for looking at, or for matching the curtains. I'd paid for that furniture, it was less than five years old, so it didn't make any sense to get rid of it. But we were moving to a new city, and I was ready to begin life anew. I sold our living room set for practically nothing. Go figure.
We moved to Austin at a time when everyone else in the country was moving here, too. The occupancy rate for apartments was something like 99 percent, so I was lucky to find an empty apartment for my family.
We rented a small, newly-built, three-bedroom apartment in South Austin. It had central air, an automatic dishwasher and garbage disposal — a new experience for us. We were living large compared to where we had come from, with the exception that we were sitting on the floor. The move hadn't cost us a dime, but we didn't have enough money to purchase another living room set.
While shopping, my wife purchased a sofa that fit our budget perfectly. She brought it home one evening in a Target shopping bag. It was no heavier than a blanket, silver and see-through, retro-looking. Inflated, it looked like a miniature model of The Hindenburg. Or a Marine rescue boat. Had we lived in a flood plane, there would have been no worries.
The sofa was larger than average, and it sat higher. To sit down, you practically had to climb up on it. And worse yet, it filled the entire apartment with the aroma a shower curtain.
I thought: Is she kidding? I'm in a brand-spanking new apartment, in a brand-spanking new city, with a brand-spanking new job. I'm not furnishing my home with an over-sized birthday party balloon. I objected, but my objections were overruled by our budget. We kept The Hindenburg with a plan to get new furniture when we had a house built.
On most days it wasn't an issue. We didn't know anyone in Austin, so we didn't have any visitors . . . well, except for one: Ms. Snooty. My daughter had become best friends with a girl at her school. Her mother was one of those bourgeois people who had acquired a little money from her in-home nursing business and looked down her nose at anyone who didn't drive a Lexis nicer than hers.
Ms. Snooty and her daughter lived in a beautifully furnished house, in the upscale and affluent Circle C subdivision. I'd been there many times to drop off and pick up my daughter, and Ms. Snooty often offered advice on the proper ways to raise a teenage daughter — like we had been doing it wrong all along. One time, she even offered to keep our daughter for us, because, she said, our daughter would be much happier living with her. Biach!
After a football game one evening, the girls had planned to sleep over with us. So before the game, Ms. Snooty dropped in for a visit to check things out.
"Lovely place you have here," she said, as she walked in to our apartment. Her tone was disapproving. She scanned every inch of the kitchen and living room, which was mostly naked with the exception of a small dinette set, a television, and The Hindenburg.
"Have a seat," I said, reluctantly, stretching my hand out towards a chair at the dinette. "Can I get you something to drink?"
"Water," she said, dryly. The girls scurried off to the back bedroom and slammed the door. My wife removed a bottle of water from the refrigerator, poured it into a glass and handed it to Ms. Snooty, whose eyes were frozen on The Hindenburg.
"It's just temporary," I said, giggling nervously. "We plan to get new furniture after we buy a house." I made small talk about the Austin housing market when Ms. Snooty unexpectedly walked over to the sofa and sat down. The friction from her leather skirt and the plastic made an unfortunate, flatulent noise. If it were possible for a Black woman to turn red, Ms. Snooty would have been purple.
My wife and I looked at each other, wanting to crack up. We didn't because, suddenly, the side of the sofa that Ms. Snooty was sitting on began to sink, while the other end began to rise. Within seconds, The Hindenburg was standing upright near a 45-degree angle. Squatted down there with her butt on the sofa — and one hand on the ground for balance — she looked like the Center in a football game, ready the hike the ball. Our so-called decorative pillows had slid down and piled against her side, which made her balancing act even more awkward.
The three of us continued to chat for a half-hour, acting as though nothing out of the ordinary were happening. When Ms. Snooty had enough of our plastic airship she quickly made an exit. It was a humbling experience for everyone involved.
We lived in that apartment for six months before we moved into our new home. The Hindenburg currently resides in our garage, folded up in a corner, to be sold at our neighborhood garage sale later this fall.
I couldn’t find an image of the actual sofa, but I did find the chair version. Just imagine it four times the length and twice as tall.
A few days before my interview at the Austin newspaper, I made an appointment with a barber to have my dreadlocks cut off. I really wanted the job, and I didn’t want my hair to stand in the way. Dreadlocks weren't mainstream in the late 90s, at least not in Des Moines, Iowa — not even with Black people.
I hadn’t been to Austin, Texas before, so I didn’t know about the city’s laid-back atmosphere. I didn’t know about the "Keep Austin Weird" slogan, or that Austin was known as the Live Music Capital of the World, a place where dreadlocks were considered tame in comparison to purple spikes and the gothic vampire look.
I didn’t keep my appointment with the barber, though. I loved my dreadlocks and knew I'd be angry with myself for cutting them, especially if I didn’t get the job.
After my plane landed in Austin, I took a cab to my hotel. As I stood in the shower, I began to scold myself. Are you stupid or what? You should have cut the things off. Maybe I didn't want the job. Perhaps I was too scared to move away from Des Moines, the only place I'd ever lived. Did I intentionally sabotage my interview? I dried myself off, slipped into a suit and tie, and pulled my dreadlocks back neatly into a ponytail. Then I crossed my fingers and went down to the lobby, where I was to meet the newspaper’s graphics editor.
Nervous about the interview, I stepped outside to get some fresh air — which, in retrospect, was ridiculous considering it was about 110 degrees out there. I paced the sidewalk, taking in Austin’s beautiful downtown skyline. The picturesque view put me at ease. Within a few minutes, a small black racecar with a dingy paint job pulled up and parked near me. It’s engine rumbled loud like a modified Harley Davidson motorcycle.
An African American man, about my same age but a full head taller, opened the door of the car and stepped out. “I’m the graphics editor for the newspaper,” he said, shaking my hand. His dreadlocks — almost twice as long as mine — bounced wildly around his shoulders as we shook hands.
I had a great interview. And, yes, in between talking graphics and journalism and Austin oddities, we talked dreadlocks. I got the job.
It's hard to believe, but this week marks ten years that my family and I have lived in Austin, Texas. It took forever for me to refer to myself as a Texan, because I was a proud Iowan. As far as I was concerned, I only lived in Texas, temporarily. I would return to Iowa someday.
My wife and I, and my then 16-year-old daughter, moved to Austin in late August of 1999 from Des Moines. On the day we left, the weather had been unusually cool, but once we hit Texas, temperatures skyrocketed to something crazy like 110. I remember feeling like I was going to smother under the weight of the sun. My skin burned, and I was astonished by the number of people who were actually outside jogging. My shirts were perpetually damp from sweat, and I gave up on the idea of ever smelling fresh again. No amount of antiperspirant was a match for Texas heat.
Those first few years in Austin were the most exciting time of my life. Everything was so new — new job, new apartment, new people. Dishwasher! The apartment we moved into was brand-spanking new and it had a dishwasher. It was the first time in my life I'd ever had such a convenience. There were new places to eat, new stores to shop, new parks to explore. Every day served up a new adventure.
We've been here ten years now, and we love Austin today the same as the first day we move here. I can say it now, "I'm Texan."
For the next week or so, I plan to write about my journey to Austin. What brought my family from the corn capital of the world to the live music capital? What were our highlights over the past ten years? The low points? And where are we going next?
-------------
Pictured: I tried to find the perfect picture to post, one of my wife and family when we first moved to Austin, but I couldn't find one. The picture above is of me and two of my three brothers on the day before I moved to Austin, at a going-away party.
For the most part, I'm finished with interior illustrations for She Loved Baseball: The Effa Manley Story. Some paintings might could use a bit of tweaking, but nothing very time consuming. I hope.
At this point the editor and art director, and I are discussing ideas for the cover. And it's tricky. The story itself is quiet, as are most of the interior illustrations. But they would like a lively cover. So I'm going to kick around a few ideas over the next week, inbetween my other projects (snagged a good one yesterday).
Now here's the funny part. I wasn't happy with two of the interior illustrations. In fact, I had planned to redo them but ran out of time. With one spot I kinda went over-the-top with my color choices, and I wanted to tone down the palette. With the other spread I wasn't sure what to do, but I felt like something was wrong.
But guess what? The spread I wanted to throw out is my art director's favorite. And the spread with the wild colors is my editor's favorite — go figure. In fact they like the colorful spread so much, they want me to use a similar palette on the cover.
Art is so subjective, there's really no right or wrong. Just do it and have fun.
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Wow! What a rollercoaster ride that phonecall took you on. Seems like it meant just as much to you as it did to him. :-)
BTW, can I call you Donny?
Thanks, Jay. My grandfather is an absolutely fantastic person. If I could give him a nickname, I'd call him Abraham (the guy in the Bible).
And actually, more people know me as Donny than anything else. So go-'head!
Don,Donny, Devas.
Don, I literally experienced a chill when your grandfather recognized you.
I am SO glad you called. :)
Thanks for stopping in, Tee.
Don