My Name in Print!

You may recall my self-congratulatory post earlier last year about my first paid illustration gig.  Well after weeks of sketches, color studies, full-bleed page spreads, corrupted files, late nights, long hours and maddening revisions, I finished my first book.  All 28 pages.  The client was a communications major who wanted a private commission for a portfolio diversifier.

Here are some of the highlights:

 

This was the first page I finished.  

It helped set the tone for the whole book as far as the level of detail,

 

design simplicity (it is a kids book after all),

 

and stylization of the main character.   

 

I had to keep in mind that there would be text on these pages, 

not just my images.  It took some getting used to,

 leaving large empty spaces in the pictures.

 As I find is often the case, the research for this job was the most fun.

Who doesn't love getting paid to study Star Wars?  

There is such a rich tapestry of characters,

 exotic planets,

 and futuristic tech, I had a great time 

recapturing the galaxy far, far away.

I don't expect to get famous over this, more than anything else, this was an extremely valuable learning opportunity for me.  I had no clue just how much time and effort goes into a book (those pages pile up quick on a deadline!)

I might put some samples up on my website (there I go again, shamelessly plugging my portfolio), but many of these pages will end up on tumblr for everyone's viewing pleasure.

If anyone was wondering, this is what swallowed up most of my holiday, which sheds some light on why I haven't posted anything in a while.  

Let me know what you think!  Comment, share, help me get the word out.

S

My Dad and Martin

Happy Martin Luther King, Jr. Day, everyone.  I have looked up to Dr. King ever since I was little.  The first non-fiction I ever read was his biography (a treasured find from a school book fair).  I've had a photograph of him holding his Nobel Peace Prize as long as I can remember, framed on my wall over the years.  But I remember one instance when my faith in his Dream was first tested.  I was too young to remember much of the details surrounding the incident, but fortunately my father had the courage and wisdom to speak up and ask, "Why?"

Today, in honor of one of my heroes, I thought I'd abstain from preaching my own feigned wisdom and instead quote another hero of mine.  The following was taken from his Letter to the Editor for the Tucson Citizen Jan. 21, 2004.  Thanks Dad.

 

King’s Message Ignored

Another Martin Luther King Day has come, and Tucsonans have taken notice along with the rest of the country. But have we really honored King’s legacy?

When I moved my family to Tucson three years ago, I was pleased to see that the Tucson Unified School District had “magnet” schools – schools that supposedly specialized in certain curricular areas.

It was an opportunity, I thought, to let my children focus on their individual talents. Yet, when I contacted the district, I was told quite bluntly that my son would not be welcome at the school we were interested in. Why? Because he’s the wrong color.

The magnet schools aren’t and never were about specialized curriculum. They’re about a government-enforced system of racial discrimination. If your skin is one shade, you’re welcome here; if it’s another, you’ll just have to go somewhere else.

My son keeps a picture of Martin Luther King on his wall, and we’ve read his biography together more than once. I had to tell this boy, who holds Dr. King as one of his greatest heroes, that right now, in America, our local government refuses to judge him by the content of his character, and will consider only the color of his skin.

Some will say there’s nothing the district can do, since this system is the result of a judicial edict. Can’t go against the judge, can we? But wait. Weren’t there judges, and police, and even governors enforcing racial discrimination when Dr. King stood against it? What did he teach us? When the law is that wrong, we have a responsibility to resist.

Where are the school administrators, the parents, the local government officials, and the ordinary citizens, who are willing to stand, nonviolently but firmly, as Dr. King did, against this government-sponsored system of racial discrimination?

Where are those who are willing to pay a price to make a change? Where are those who are willing to truly honor Martin Luther King?

DONALD BUGG

Part Two: the march to March

I mentioned earlier a rough review I got for a draft of a novel I'm trying to write.  The prologue was decimated as categorical proof of my shortcomings as a writer.  Then there was the first chapter.  I still haven't gotten feedback on that yet.  I've written and rewritten over 20 drafts of that first chapter.  They say the most difficult parts of a story to write are the endings and the beginnings.

Last month before I became enslaved by the indoor lethargy of finals and freelance I got back into running.  A year ago I used to regularly jog anywhere between 5  to 10 kilometers but have since opted for shorter interval sprints to build up my cardio endurance and ease up on my joints.  Yet always, without fail, the hardest part of any run regardless of the distance is that first part.  That transition from a sedentary state to runner-mode.  This usually only lasts about half a mile, never longer than a full mile.

Why is it so hard to get to Part Two?

You start with such vigorous optimism, your hope bright and new.  This time you'll do it!  You'll lose those extra pounds, make more time for family, shoot for that promotion, start that small business, run that marathon, finish that book, discontinue that netflix account, learn that recipe.  You are finally going to sweep out those cobwebs of complacence and start your life with a clean start.

January's frosty chill can't deter your willpower.  You wake up early and get out there training, breaking old habits, establishing new patterns of living and hitting the refresh button on your day to day. You are the picture of dedication.  Days soon build into a week, then two.  By week three the novelty of your new life begins wearing away, revealing that remaining discomfort of missing out on the "good ol' days," patiently waiting for you to succumb to its embrace.  You make excuses, a day missed here, a little slip there, and before February ends, those gym passes you got as a new year's present to yourself sit gathering dust, you're back to the sleeping in, fat, lazy, uncultured, illiterate netflix-binger that disgusted you in last year's mirror.

The February mark is a tough reality to face.  Fact is, very few New Year's Resolutions last beyond two months.

What makes Part Two so seemingly unattainable?

Honestly, I think it's because as much as we like to think we know our heart's desires,

we don't know what we want. 

I don't mean that our desires are necessarily changeable, although that can often be the case.  I mean we don't know how badly we want what we want.  How much are you willing to put into your goals?  What desires take top priority?  What is still worth the effort when your new habit is no longer new, just uncomfortable?

Often these priorities reveal themselves organically.  Is the misery of that first try, first lap, first draft worth trudging through?

Absolutely.

Kara's Flowers' debut album flopped before they reformed as Maroon 5.  Coldplay once went by Starfish in the bumpy first lap of their career.  Even the founding fathers had to go through a first draft flop of legislation (those darn Articles of Confederation) before they drafted the Constitution.  Very rarely will you succeed on your first go.  2013 was filled with lessons on what not to do in my life.  Next year will have plenty of those, too.  I'm just trying not to repeat them.  Don't give up on your first lap.  Don't put down the pen halfway through the prologue.

Let's get to March one step, one page, one lap, one brilliantly dazzling mistake at a time.  Join me in my march to March 2014. 



S

Baggage Claim

Before leaving for Bulgaria in 2009 I got some solid, sturdy luggage that I could trust to carry all of my earthly belongings for the next two years.  I lived in numerous cities over that span of time and got used to living out of suitcases.  Sometimes I didn't bother unpacking my clothes, I'd just use my suitcases as dressers.

When I came home I continued to live out of my suitcases, all my clothes shoved into luggage under the spare bed as I crashed with my brother for a few months before I left for school.  My mom berated my brother for not making room for my things in the dresser.  I didn't mind, I was used to living with my baggage.

I left some of my suitcases behind at home and took others to move out to school.  In three moves from apartment to apartment as a college sophomore, I always managed to fit everything I owned into the small sedan that got me from A to B.

While B. and I were dating I honed my packing skills to a science, carrying all I would need for a three-day weekend adventure with my girlfriend in a small duffel bag I snagged for $3 at a thrift store.

I thought me and my baggage were good.  We had a deal.



B. and I celebrated our birthdays last month.  Hers is only two days before mine, so we usually combine the festivities in a low-key smattering of brief spending sprees and gift-giving over the course of a few days rather than one big cake-and-candles party.

When we went out to our birthday dinner, we did something we hadn't done in a long time:  we had a real, heart to heart, deep conversation about the hard stuff in life - big decisions like careers and kids and our future together.  One of those really intense, soul-bearing conversations that leaves you feeling raw inside.  It had been a long time since we had brought up such deep personal stuff.  It was brief, but still left us both sore and unsettled.

It gave me pause for a few reasons.  It was a reminder of how much we leave under the rug,  even in marriage.  How much of ourselves can get shelved out of the other's view.  We get so little time together, we rarely see more than the mild-mannered happy spouse-by-day face we put on in public.



Truth is, we all carry baggage with us.

Especially in relationships.



I heard once that you don't have to be disagreeable to disagree.  This was a charming adage given to me by a man who claimed that he had never fought with his wife.

That's crap.


Marriage, like most things in life, has some inevitabilities.  Some fights resurface, not all dragons are vanquished after you make up, some disagreements lie dormant, waiting until you're both ready to tackle it again - and you aren't always ready. 

But the scariest inevitabilities are the ones we pick up at baggage claim.  Those insecurities, fears, anxieties, prejudices, tendencies, and tempers that are destined to clash by their very natures.  We can't help it, we all have little passengers from our past latched onto us trying to gnaw at our futures.

Coming from a divorced family doesn't doom you to divorce.  Growing up in financial fragility doesn't cripple your value.  Bad breakups shouldn't dictate the dynamics of your present relationship.  We aren't our past.  We aren't our parents; their greatest gift to us isn't the legacy they leave us.  It's the choice they give us.  The chance to select what parts and portions of them to leave behind and what to take with us and make our own.

Baggage can be burdensome, but I think this goes the other way, too.  When life decides to pile on the really heavy stuff, it helps to know that we can carry it.  A charmed life of lightweight carry-ons is poor preparation for what fate can send our way.  Maybe baggage isn't all bad.

No matter how clean we think our slate is going entering a new life with someone, there they are.  Our issues await us at baggage claim.  We can't leave it all behind, it's part of what makes us.  I'm just glad to know I have someone who took me with all of my drama attached.



Pack light.


S

Painted Morning

A few days ago I had an unusual morning.

Startlingly different from many of the others surrounding it.  First of all, I was already on my way to full consciousness when my alarm finally pushed me off the edge into wakefulness.  More of a brotherly nudge than a prankster's shove.  Second of all, the morning seemed brighter.  More light seemed to emanate from the high windows of our cozy basement apartment.  I thought I might be running late, that the morning had slipped away from me and darkling dawn had rushed into day without my consent.

I had worn long sleeves to bed and for the first time in weeks didn't have a chill, maybe I was just unaccustomed to waking up with good blood circulation.  But as I sat up and stretched and yawned I realized it was more than a mere change in pace or renewed health or vigor that made this morning stand out.

God was with me this morning.

Now, I suppose this should happen every morning every day.  I'd like to pretend my life is that perfect.  But to be honest, those few bleary-eyed mornings when I do remember to begin my day with prayer, that prayer too often resembles the exhausted half-baked thoughts and unfinished ramblings of someone still treading water in slumber, not quite ready to leave the REM pool.

 But today, it seems He came to me.

This has happened a few times before, and it startles me every time.  I often find that if we want God we have to meet him halfway.  But perhaps on occasion He gives us a break and puts forth some extra effort on our behalf. 

There was nothing particularly spiritually urgent about it.  No heavenly call, no voice from the sky, no eleventh commandment that I'm aware of.  Just a vague feeling of closeness.


I think sometimes God just misses us.

And so he paints a day just for us. Or at least a morning.


My morning had a fresh chill to it.  Not biting, but a gentle nibble to remind you you're awake.  A sky painted from a Robert Frost poem.  Clouds overhead keeping the cool sheen of the last night's rain slick on the ground.  Darkened cement trying in vain to dry to a brighter shade of gray. A dampened world for dampened souls.  That muffled hush clouds seem to give the air.  Somehow our thoughts speak more clearly, louder in contrast to the quieted world.

Writers live for days like these.  I praise God for quieting the world for my mornings.

S