The Death of Handwritten

Quitting my creative writing class was a really difficult decision for me.  I'd like to think I don't quit easily on things, particularly when school is involved.  But I had a few days before the withdrawal deadline and I believed that I had gleaned the most beneficial portions of the class.  I had photocopied the pages required in the syllabus and returned the textbook before the return deadline at the beginning of the semester (now that's how you do college for cheap, kids!)  I had finished the poetry section and the fiction section, and the rest of the semester held only essays and discussions.

I had been phoning in the homework for a while, literally copying and pasting from the blog at times when I needed material in a pinch.  Somewhere along the line I realized that my writing class was keeping me from really writing.

I haven't written here in far too long.  I've missed this, my sanctuary of words and thoughts.  My class required daily entries into a handwritten journal of sorts to keep us writing everyday.  But leaving my keyboard and my ability to more readily self-edit for the pencil smudgery that is handwriting for lefties felt like - well, like camping; sure I could do it and make it just fine, but why settle for a sleeping bag when you own the softy down of a queen mattress?  A cheap composition notebook just doesn't suit me or my purposes.  And typing is comfier, sue me.

My classmates were all there for different reasons and I was the only one from my academic background and the only non-English Major.  I felt out of place surrounded by people who thought in words and turns of phrases and screenplays.  I'm a storyteller, but in that class I felt distracted from that goal.  I'm sure many would, have and will find the exercises prescribed in that class and others like it useful, and I did gain some occasional insight at times.  But I was looking for an intensive focus to build upon the skill set I had rather than an exploration of different genres and styles.  I've found what styles work for me and what don't.  If I went to a music store to buy a piano they wouldn't make me learn trumpet first.  I can find what I'm looking for elsewhere.

I've looked back on my earliest posts and tried to rediscover the fire that got me writing to begin with. The purpose of this blog is more than just a more detailed series of facebook statuses.  There's more to this than mere therapeutic journaling, I think.  This is the memorial of our early years as a couple.  This is where I come to pen our struggles, our anxieties, and our triumphs.  This is where we immortalize our flaws, the ones we try to grow out of over time. 

These posts and pages are where our friends, family and readers can look back with us and marvel at how we made it through.  I don't know what I'll write next, I never have.  There is no plan.  If something is noteworthy, I note it.

This is our notebook.


S

The Four W's - A Weekend of Firsts

I did something for the very first time this weekend. A few things, actually.


Wakey-wakey, lunch and breaky

I've eaten at all times of the day or night.  But I don't think I've ever had a mid-morning meal and given enough thought to it to call it brunch. B. and I went to brunch at a friend's house and enjoyed an increasingly rare respite from our day-to-day, home-to-work-to-school-to-work-to-home lives.  We caught up with some old friends and enjoyed a great meal.  Our weekend felt more like a weekend somehow because of that brunch.


"Well, this might as well happen..."

I've just sort of accepted that God challenges great men to help them achieve greatness,

but He challenges me just cuz it's funny. 

I don't mean to say I'm destined for the biblical curses of Job, but if there is some sort of minor mishap that could effectively ruin my day or distract or divert me from getting anything done on time, it's bound to happen eventually.  And I always follow up with a humorous report later.  He  gives me great material, I guess.  You'll recall my long trek across town to right a foolish wrong.  This was less dramatic and even less time-consuming, but still frustrating.

I've developed a habit of locking the door on my way out in the mornings.  This is great for security, although I'm prone to lock the door even when I'm not going that far.  Like the mailbox.  I was pleased to get a check I had been expecting from a freelance client, but my joy was soon snuffed out by the realization that my keys were in fact not in my right pocket as they usually are, but sitting on the kitchen counter.  I had locked myself out. 

I had no keys.  No way inside the apartment.  No way into the car sitting parked in our driveway.  What I did have was a bike.  And a wife with keys at work.  Six miles later (uphill, against the wind) I borrowed B.'s keys, cooled down with a vitamin water and made the much smoother downhill downwind trip home.  Biking will always be preferable to walking in these sorts of situations.

I'm actually relieved to have done it now.  Finally it's happened.  Somehow there's less apprehension about it now that the deed is done. 


Withdrawals

Not the kind you're probably thinking of.  Unless you're thinking chocolate.  Then... you're still wrong.  Darn those girl scouts and their delicious boxes of minty chocolate temptation.  No, for the first time in my collegiate career, I'm quitting.  I dropped a class.  It had just gotten to the point where it was more of a burden than a help, and at this point, so close to graduation, I can't afford to be distracted by courses that don't pertain directly to my career.  I'll write more about this later but suffice it to say I much prefer to write creatively than take creative writing.


Wisdom(?) 

An impressive "behold my profundity!" aphorism escaped my lips in the middle of Barnes & Noble a few days ago. 

Folks, this NEVER happens.  Anything remotely impressive I've ever said - I didn't actually say.  I either memorized a quote from someone super-deep or I wrote it down beforehand.  I'm a writer, not a speaker.  I didn't even think it was all that great, but B. pointed it out as rather clever.  So with her praise being really my only goal in life, I'm happy to share what she deemed wisdom.

She expressed concern over the tests she would have to take before and during grad school.  Those tests are expensive and extremely difficult.  I tried to console her and tell her that price wasn't something to even factor in, and that not passing the first time is no big deal.  There's no shame in failing.

"There's a difference between failing and being a failure," I remarked sagely. "Once you've stopped failing, you've done it - you've become a true failure."

And I honestly believe that.  I downloaded a student version of Maya a few days ago.  This 3d modelling software has already reduced me to thumping the keyboard like an ape more than once.  Failure is exciting.  I'd rather frame my rejection letter to my BFA program than the acceptance letter I received later.  You learn so much less from success.  Keep trying, keep failing.



And with that, I'll leave you.  How was your weekend?  What were your W's?




S

Comfort Level

For Valentine’s Day B. and I did something special.  I got my very first massage.  This was a huge step for me, personally.  I had resigned myself to living a life devoid of strangers touching me.  I always felt awkward about it.  Paying someone for pleasurable physical contact has always been a little too akin to prostitution for me.  Maybe it’s my warped sensitivity about gender roles; maybe I’m just an inherently awkward person.  But B. loves them, so with her in the room for moral support and assurance that I wasn’t embodying that pale creep with thinning hair and a pencil thin blonde mustache who haunts the nightmares of all women everywhere, we went in together.

 As we entered out dimly lit room with ambient noise wafting from a small stereo in the corner, our masseuses (B. gave me some playful ribbing that they were both women) discussed where we wanted them to focus, our tension spots, etc.  Then as they left the room they asked us to undress to our comfort level.  I momentarily regretted not bringing a parka or at least a turtleneck, but B. and I stripped down and quickly hopped into our beds.

The next hour is sort of a blur.  They quietly came in once we were decent and ready and began to work.  She worked out numerous knots I didn’t know I had.  My shoulders melted.  My spine liquefied.  I was a blob.  A semi-conscious, heavy-lidded, relaxed blob.  I didn’t know the massage extended past there, but as she dug her elbow into my legs, I melted even more. (I had run over 10k the day before)

The hour ended too soon, and we got dressed and limply noodled our way back to the car and headed home.  It was a strange sensation to feel so loose.  Zero tension in my back, my shoulders or legs.  B. felt it, too.  That night, however, I found it difficult to relax.  The mattress felt foreign under me.  The lumps and knots in my back no longer matched the topography of the springs underneath.  I tossed and turned and lay awake late into the night.  I was too relaxed to be comfortable.

This is my first semester in a long while where I haven’t maxed out my credit hours or tried balancing 6 classes with part-time work.  I’ve been told I’m a glutton for punishment.  This semester I really only have one class with a severe workload – a workload I set.  A new, experimental class was created this year, combining the talents of English, Graphic Design, Editing, Computer Science, Animation and of course Illustration majors.  Our goal: to create and publish children’s books.  At the beginning of the school year we all pitched story ideas, then voted on the most promising.  We hope to write and illustrate around ten books by April.

I’m illustrating three.  I also wrote one, though, so this truly is a labor of love.  People have given me a lot of incredulous looks when I tell them what I’m up to.  I must be insane, how do I ever relax?  Where do I find the time?  It’s a lot of late nights and early mornings, caffeine jolts and hours upon hours apart working or doing homework. 

But I’m comfortable doing it. 

B.'s no different.  She's up late along with me, trying to pass stats, genetics, insanely difficult chemistry, all while working full time in a less than desirable work environment.  But she loves school to a terrifying, borderline unhealthy level.  She's comfortable being an overworked student, as am I.

B. and I can’t seem to relax.  We’re incurable workaholics and if we’re not busy we’re not happy.  That’s where our comfort level is.  Some people can sit at home and do nothing all day; I don’t think that’s in us.

I guess my point is, some of us don't know how to relax and for some of us relaxation isn't relaxing.  If you like to be busy, be busy!  If you love relaxing all the time... well, I guess I'll just tell you now I will have fries with that, thank you.  Everyone has their comfort level.

Where's yours?


S

Spent

This story begins with something called a fan brush.

I'm in a portrait class this semester, and over the past few weeks I've systematically bought paints and brushes using daily coupons at Michael's and Hobby Lobby, gradually accruing the tools and supplies I need, all for 40% off.  This weekend I needed a fan brush.

I returned home with my goods, packed them in my backpack and didn't think about it again.  until I came home from a run to my phone going off.  B. was on the other line.  She told me that there had been a security breach at a few retail stores (much like the recent Target hack) including Michaels, where I had gotten my brush just hours ago.  She, knowing my tendency for extreme frugality and my long-term plans to shop at Michael's, urged me to change as much information as I could on my debit account so as to protect our money.

As a side note, I had recently received a loan for an upcoming field trip with my department so there was considerably more in my account than usual.  More cash at stake = more stress for B.  My bank's hotline had closed, their customer service down for the day, so I did the most I could and sent them an email asking for a hold on the current card and to send me a new one asap.

I checked my account later that night, first thing the next morning and again mid-day. Still secure.

Nothing spent.


That afternoon, in the midst of a grocery run I splurged on some fancy shampoo B. had requested for Valentine's Day. (romance often gives way to practicality for us - especially when it's 50% off)  I handed the cashier my early present and my debit card.  My heart sank as the screen flashed red and told us that the card had been rejected.

I quickly bought the shampoo with a credit card and we raced home.  B. was furious with me for not calling the emergency number and reporting the card stolen, just to be safe.  What would we do if I was suddenly bankrupt?  How would we pay our bills?  Would they max out our credit cards, too?  How much could they hack from us?  Would it all be spent?  I was a little concerned about losing my loan in addition to my own money on the card, but knew I wouldn't know anything for sure until we got home and checked.

It was one of the more silent drives of my life as B. raced home, (to her credit) resisting the urge to berate my incompetence.

We made quite a pair during those ten minutes or so.  She was a nervous, frantic, panicky wreck.  I - well, I wouldn't characterize myself as the picture of stoic calm, but I was significantly more relaxed than my poor B.

Funny thing is, I was a lot like her not long ago.  I used up a lot of my early years worrying and fretting about forces beyond my control and often, quite frankly not my concern.  I stressed about my dad finding a great career, about my mother's pregnancies, about how my siblings were treated by their friends, etc.  I was a worrier.

But I think a lot of that stress got all spent early on, so I save my anxiety for when the occasion truly calls for it.  My worry is a precious resource now.  So, in a situation like this one, where I know my hands are tied and there's nothing I can do until I have more information, I'm pretty calm.  One disaster at a time.

Well, we got home and I logged on to see all my funds present and accounted for with a small message from the bank informing me that all funds were frozen and that a new card would reach me in 2-5 business days.

Poor B. sighed with relief, hands still tremoring as she wilted onto the couch.  She quickly apologized for being short with me, I responded with my own apology for not putting two and two together earlier and making her worry so much.

I don't take those apologies lightly either.  I rarely get them from B.  True, she's usually right when we disagree (most wives are) so its a rare occasion itself, but I also know while I was using up all of my worry, she was using up a lot of something much more precious: her forgiveness.

In the years I've known her, my B. has really been dragged through the mud by a lot of people who should have had her back.  Years of false friends and betrayals add up quick, and the well of her forgiveness goes much deeper than mine, I can tell you.  So when she apologizes to me or forgives me, I know its a big deal.


At one point or another, everyone gets close to being spent.


What have you spent?

What are you holding in reserve?



S

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