Writeblr, thirties, love rain! I donāt think Iām going to be writing anymore. But Iāll stay semi-active on here to reblog and stuff. Just donāt expect any new original writing content.
People who complain that school doesn't teach them anything they can use in real life often have severe misconceptions about what real life is. Chiefly, that they're already in it.
Yes, we could teach you how to fill out a tax form or pay bills, but I promise these things are actually quite unchallenging. Like, I could teach you, but it'd take like 20 minutes; you'll be fine.
The biggest problem is that these complaints make "real life" seem to just be 1. acquire job 2. know how to do job. And that's important, but it's a small fraction of life. If all my students have is a job and the ability to pay bills, then I haven't done justice to their education.
School also teaches you how to care about things. How to know when you must care. What to do with that care. You need to be equipped with critical thinking skills to decide what should be deconstructed, what you really believe and don't believe instead of what you're told. You need to know the history of these things to make informed choices. And yes, even math, even when they put letters in it, is giving you a mind. It's working and wiring your logical reasoning that will guide you.
The main thing people who make this complaint don't understand is that when we talk about children as the "next generation, the future" it's literal. We won't be here forever! We will die! And then it's YOU who is in charge! You decide!
You decide how society changes. You decide what stays and what gets left behind of popular ideology. So, you go to school, and we teach you everything we know. Yes, even that the mitochondria is the powerhouse of the cell and lines from Shakespeare's sonnets and what year the civil war happened. Because it matters.
It matters because we know it! It's knowledge! And if we don't teach it, it dies, like we will, so now it's yours. Decide what you teach the next ones. And if that's just how to get a job and pay taxes, well, we did our best.
Your writing ideas will definitely be plagiarized if you post them here
I'm aware, but it's not like I'm personally going to actually ever write them. It's been years since I've written anything and trying to hoard a whole bunch of story ideas and 7 unfinished book drafts for absolutely no reason when I do absolutely nothing with them isn't as enjoyable as just sharing them online like this.
Pretentious asshole is OUT! Pretentious Sweetheart is IN! Wearing dapper clothes and holding the door open for others makes you feel COOL AS H*CK! Glance up from your hefty books to give a stranger a smile!! Quote literature to inspire others! Be presumptuous in the way that you presume that everyone needs their day to be a little brighter!!!
Okay but- this has done before but- just a character laying there and staring dazedly up at the sky as they bleed out and time goes hazy. Reality is SO FRAGILE and there is so much potential for emotion there
really i think one of my favorite character dynamics is āi donāt actually like you but weāve been through so much together that iād trust you with my life and know that we will always back each others calls. but i still wouldnāt trust you with my car keys.ā like āwe arenāt really friends but weāve been thrust into an intense situation where you are the only other person i know so now weāre besties.ā and āif it werenāt for our years of history i would have literally nothing to talk to you about at this work dinner.ā Enemies to lovers has NOTHING on general disinterest to begrudging acknowledgment to discovering that this person is now an inextricable part of your life
dear writers who are slower/take more time with their writing or writers who are on hiatus or writers who are trying to find their voice again, i see you and i love you and you are valid
IDK who needs to hear this but if there's something in your life that makes you feel better, but you never stick to it,
it's still actually perfectly fine to do it
and you shouldn't stop yourself from starting just because it won't be a permanent change.
Like if starting a new daily planner gives you an amazing afternoon of planning and four days where you feel in charge of your life,
why not do it?
It doesn't matter that it won't be a permanent change - 4 good days is still worth it.
If you ever catch yourself thinking, "I wish I could pray/stretch/prep/plan/do the thing, but I always get started on that and it never lasts more than a couple of days,"
what this really means is, "hey, I can feel better for a couple of days."
if this post is making you think of things in your own life that you wish you could stick to because of how good they make you feel,
just be aware:
you're not thinking of a list of ways you've failed to commit
you're thinking of a list of things that make you happy, and you should give yourself permission to start doing them as often as you want to
Love how tumblr has its own folk stories. Yeah the God of Arepo weāve all heard the story and we all still cry about it. Yeah that one about the woman locked up for centuries finally getting free. That one about the witch who would marry anyone who could get her house key from her cat and itās revealed she IS the cat after the narrator befriends the cat.
"What your characters say is their motivation isn't in line with their character and actions."
Yup, it's called narrative dissonance. Homegirl ain't being honest enough with herself to admit what's actually driving her. Maybe she'll figure out over the course of the book, maybe we won't. Who knows. I love pitting show and tell against each other and seeing who comes out on top.
shoutout to the slow artists. the artists with hardly any time for art. the artists who reach the end of the day with no energy for art. you got this i believe in you and you are no less valued than anyone else
to be clear. when i say artist i mean every kind of art. drawing writng music sculpting embroidery idc this post was for you and i am sending my love your way
I recently started a new job at the maker-space at my school, which means I have FREE and totally UNLIMITED access to all sorts of neat machines, including 3DĀ printers, a laser cutter, a waterjet, t-shirt printers, and a sticker maker.
In short, Iāve gone mad with power.
My grand plan is to manufacture a ton of merch so I have inventory on hand when Iām preparing for book releases, and I can set up a shop on my website in the meantime! Which is why IĀ need your input. Please respond to this email with your choice, or suggest any other ideas of your own!Ā
What types of merch do you want to see?Ā
Vinyl Stickers (of all sizes)
Apparel (either t-shirts or long-sleeved, but I canāt do hoodies or hats)
Keychains (either laser cut wood or 3D printed tokens on ring)
What type of merch do you want to see?
Character portraits
Symbolic objects from my stories
Lucaās Staff
Madelynās Notebook
Hannahās pocket knife and spyglass
Aellaās knitting needles from the mailing list story, āEdge of Infinityā
Yellow Roses for the ~branding~
Writer art such as inkwells and quills, stacks of notebooks, sticky note conspiracy outlines, etc.
Quotes and other writer memes
It was far too lovely a day for a riotā¦. (the opening lines of Storge)
We can stop this madness. (Another important line from Storge)
Are you prepared to pay The Piper? (the premise of Runaways)
āI know the Tropes. The tropes are hungry and they leave no survivors.ā
āFor Research!ā
āCryogenicaly freeze your darlings.ā
āAdd it to the TBR.ā
If thereās something on these lists you think I missed, or something you especially want to see more than the others, LET ME KNOW. I want to make merch that you will want to own, so I would really appreciate the input!
For some people, life doesnāt truly begin until theyāre 26-30. The way we romanticize and obsess over youth is super harmful. Your life is not over at 21, I promise you. Itās just beginning
Man the way life only started for some of my friends when they hit 20+ because they came from abusive households. Some of them hit 30 and started healing enough to have fun. My uncle hit 40+ and published his first book and he was so excited.
After 25 my brain stopped being such a noisy mess. Life definitely isnāt over after 21. Infact, anything before 21 is a fucking clusterfuck.
Anonymous asked: so i've heard of an overarching-plot, which i really like the idea of. i can't think of anything that would be overarching in my story, but are there any other approaches to expanding a story idea to last a series? if so, what are your personal favourites - either to read or write?
(Just noting that I've edited this ask to remove a reference to a book series/franchise that is upsetting to many.)
An overarching plot is not a unique thing. It's fairly typical for a book series, TV series, movie series, comic book series, etc.
Overarching plots aren't something you just apply to any story however. Overarching plots occur when the story you have to tell is so big, it has to be broken into individual stages... books if you're writing a book series. Movies if you're writing a movie series. Seasons if you're writing a TV show...
It helps to first understand basic story structure. Most stories, regardless of the medium, follow this general structure:
The exposition sets up the characters, world, and conflict. An inciting incident kicks off the rising action. The biggest challenge (often a showdown with the antagonist) is taken on during the climax, then the dust settles in the falling action, and everything's wrapped up in the denouement.
Some stories are so big, they go through this structure more than once. And when that happens, you would break the story up into individual stories based on that structure.
Let's look at The Hunger Games series for example. The story Suzanne Collins wanted to tell was of a girl who helps lead a rebellion against her nation's oppressive government. The story starts with the girl's sister being drafted into a fight to the death called The Hunger Games, and she volunteers to take her sister's place. She then fights in the Hunger Games, overcomes a lot of obstacles and challenges, and ultimately wins the game. However, in doing so, she also inadvertently lights a match to ignite an already brewing rebellion, and pisses off the president of her oppressive nation. In retaliation, the president announces another Hunger Games where the tributes will be victors from previous games, including Katniss. She now has to survive that, as well as ensure the survival of someone she loves, while the rebellion grows in the background. Eventually, she joins the rebellion and must play her role in it in order to save not just the people she loves but the people of her nation.
That would be a lot for a single book (or movie, or TV season, or comic book). There are three climaxes there... Katniss winning the Hunger Games, Katniss winning the Quarter Quell, and the final defeat of the Capitol.
So, the story was broken up into three books. One book to cover the first Hunger Games. One book to cover the Quarter Quell. And one book to cover actually fighting the rebellion. The rebellion (its birth in book one, its growth in book two, and its realization in book three) is the overarching plot that unites them.
In the graphic below, I call the overarching plot the "series arc."
As for how to expand your story out to make this happen... that's something only you can figure out. There aren't any methods or approaches. You have to brainstorm and play with the story to see if you can make it big enough to require more than one book. If not, just write the story you were planning to tell, and wait for a bigger story to come along. :)
Anonymous asked:
so i've heard of an overarching-plot (like harry potter/voldemort), which i really like the idea of. i can't think of anything that would be overarching in my story, but are there any other approaches to expanding a story idea to last a series? if so, what are your personal favourites - either to read or write?
Finally got to getting around to doing pictures for this gorgeous dress for this gorgeous gal! She totally rocked it! Iām posting these with her permission. I designed and made the dress, did her makeup, and took the pictures. Reblog if you love how it turned out as much as I do! But please no reposting.
Story Time: Get a load of what happened to me at Starbucks today.
Thereās a running joke among people who know me personally that I unwittingly go out in public with a sign on my forehead stating āI Am Non-Threatening. Come Talk To Me.ā Because if thereās a chance a bizarre conversation with a total stranger is going to happen, Iām typically the person it happens to.
Some context: I have been pretty darn sick this week. (Itās not Coronavirus, donāt worry.) Since the work in my queue for my day job is comprised entirely of audio narration right now, and I currently sound like a waterlogged Demi Moore, I havenāt been able to work these last couple of days. As a result, Iāve been using my down time to knock out as much of Manuās redesign as possible. Today, to ensure I didnāt spend the day languishing in sinus misery, I medicated the crap out of myself and took Manu to the Starbucks down the block from my sonās day care.
I hit the bathroom, then picked an empty table, but as soon as I sat down with my venti Comfort Tea and started tweaking the inks on my iPad, I felt the eyes of the man next to me looking over my shoulder.
When I looked up, he had his phone out. āIām sorry,ā he said (in a thick accent I couldnāt place geographically), āI donāt want to disturb. I notice you art. You are artist!ā
I tried to smile. āYes, Iām... Well, Iām trying to be,ā I croaked.
He leaned in, like he was sharing a secret.
āI am artist, too.ā
He stuck out his hand.
I gently took it, grateful for the bathroom trip I just took in which I washed the scourge off of my fingers.
āCan I?ā he asked, holding his phone up.
āTake a picture? Uh... sure,ā I said. Itās not like he would be able to steal Manu out from under me or anything, I figured. The panel I was tweaking was magnified out to Guam.
āI am artist. Architect and Designer,ā he clarified while he steadied his phone over my iPad. āI am Ilker. What is your name?ā
āIām Venessaā I said, trying to be polite. This, I thought warily, is precisely how I get myself into trouble. Iām too damn nice.
āYou know, I come to America twenty years ago from Turkey...ā
I put down my stylus. This was going to be a while.
āI like Turkey,ā he explained. āI like the country and I like the people. But I am artist. I am not... religious man.ā
I nodded.
āI told my wife I was going to go to America and she said, āwhat are you going to do? You donāt have job! You donāt have money! No Visa!ā And I said, āI am artist and architect. I will paint and sell my paintings.
āSo I come to America alone. To New York City. I sit outside, and I paint. And people, they liked my paintings. They bought them. This one for $30, that one for $50.
āOne day, a man comes over to me and he say, āI like your painting. I see you are also architect.ā And he gives me his number and asks me to go to meeting at his office. Because he wants to offer me a job. He starts to talk about a building contract.
āI tell him I donāt know anything about contracts. I have no Visa. I am not American citizen. But he says, āThatās okay. I will take care of everything. You will have nothing to worry about.ā And this man, he gave me a job. $173,000 a year. And my wife, he gave her a job too. She was project assistant. I bring her and my two daughters over from Turkey.ā
āWow,ā I said, not fully believing the veracity of what sounded like a full-on immigration fairy tale.
āHere,ā said Ilker, unlocking his phone and opening up his Facebook app. āI show you my work.ā He paused and looked up at me. āI am interrupting. You donāt mind?ā
At this point, I was invested. I had to see. Because whatever he was about to show me would either prove or disprove this yarn he was spinning. āPlease,ā I said, gesturing for him to go ahead.
He opened his photos and my jaw dropped. His work... was UNREAL.
āThis is building I designed on Madison Ave.... And this one in Chelsea...ā
Holy crap. I had just been to Chelsea with my sister last month on a trip to see a broadway show. I had crossed the intersection of the building he was, at this moment, telling me he designed.
He flipped through more buildings. These, heād designed in Washington, DC. In Bethesda. In Arlington. All beautiful, streamlined, modern structures I had visited and parked my car in front of. He told me he did much of his concept work freehand. That he worked exclusively in natural media. His preferred media was pen, ink, watercolors, and chalks.
Between photos of his wife and daughters, he went on to show me photos from the RUSSIAN EXHIBITION OF HIS ARCHITECTURE ARTWORK.
Yāall, I was stunned. I couldnāt believe the talent I was sitting next to. Scattered among these gloriously rendered images of some of the most beautiful building concepts Iād ever seen were paintings of scenes in Central Park, the National Mall, and nudes from a life-drawing session he attends from time to time.
When he was done flipping through his phone, he looked at me and smiled. āI hope you donāt mind that I interrupt you. I show you all this because what you are doing is very good. And you should be encouraged. To draw is to make beauty.ā
I nodded, a lump in my throat. āThank you,ā I managed. āYour work is astonishing. I donāt even know what to say. What is your name again?ā
He held out his hand once more. āIlker Kocahan,ā he said. āI am getting more coffee. Can I get you one?ā
I looked at my still-full venti cup. āNo thank you. But here, please take my card.ā
He held my dinky business card like Iād handed him a treasure and thanked me.
Then Ilker got his coffee, and left the coffee shop.
At some point in his ramblings he talked about America as a place of dreams. How he credits this country with helping him rise to the top of his field where he is now able to sell his paintings for $800-$1000 a piece now that heās retired. My heart ached to hear him talk about that, knowing how our leadershipās positions on immigrants have taken such a dark and horrifying turn.
Imagine the buildings and museums and public places that would never have been if a business man in the park hadnāt lifted up a Turkish painter who spoke little English.
And now that painter was paying it forward on me.
I still feel pretty darn sick. Iāve still got body aches and a nose that has taken the rest of my face hostage.
But today was a really good day. And I just wanted to share it with you in case you are looking for reasons to keep drawing/painting/dancing/writing. It all counts and it is all good.
If you would like to see Ilker Kocohanās work, please click here.
Ilker Kocahan holds a bachelorās degree in Industrial Design with a minor in architecture from the University of Marmara, Faculty of Fine A
UPDATE TO THIS STORY! I would have posted this sooner, but quarantine has had the unexpected effect of zapping all my alone-time...
As luck would have it, I saw Ilker one last time before my area received the mandate to start social distancing. I came into the Starbucks to work on the āSimon Is On the Groundā comic while waiting to pick up my kid from day care, and there he was, happily chatting with the Starbucks manager, who gifted him with a Starbucks hat while I ordered my tea.
A week had passed since our first meeting, so I wasnāt sure heād recognize me. Lo and behold, as I turned the corner, I caught his eye, and he waved at me. This time, I asked if I might sit with him, and he warmly offered the seat beside him.
While I settled in, he told me that his project was being delayed and that he was going to leave the area and fly home before COVID-19 could make it impossible to travel. The hat was for his wife, whose only understanding of Starbucks was that Ilker really liked the coffee.
As one might expect, we immediately fell into another conversation about art, except this time, I eagerly abandoned my work to hear him talk.
And friends, did I ever get a master class.
He pulled up a painting on his phone which heād sold for $800. It was a life drawing in ink and watercolor of a woman in a demure gesture, barely detailed and colored in but for her rose-tinted lips and the shadow cast across her neck. He said he felt sad that heād sold it because he really loved how it came out.
āThis is no detailed like yours,ā he said, comparing his painting to my panel of Simon and Baz. āMine is simple. But in a few strokes, I can capture the life of the lady.ā
He took his napkin, turned it over, and pulled a pen out of his chest pocket. āLook there,ā he said, pointing to a man sitting a few tables away. He began to scribble away on the napkin, lines and lines and more lines. āYou see,ā he murmured as he ran his pen over the napkin, āI can, with speed, capture the man. I donāt have hours to ask him to sit. I must let go of the planning.ā
In seconds, the man across the room took shape on the napkin in a series of confident if also messy lines. It was incredible to watch.
I could instantly see what he meant. He had not produced a photorealistic version of this person on the napkin. But he had captured the manās essence. The aura of a real person sitting contemplatively with his coffee while reading the Washington Post. I could feel the life of the drawing radiate from the paper.
(When he was done, to my horror, he crumpled up the napkin.)
I shyly mentioned that Iāve been working hard on my own gesture drawing, but had a long way to go, so he asked to see my sketchbook.
I mean... is there even a word in the English language to describe the combination of dread and embarrassment that precedes showing an art master your crap-ass sketchbook that no one sees but you? I didnāt know what to do with myself as he sat there and flipped through the pages.
Eventually, he nodded approvingly and said, āOkay! Is good. But this is sketchbook like every other.ā He gestured at the page. āWhere are you?ā
I was lost for how to respond, but lucky for me, heās a talkative guy seemingly incapable of awkward silences.
āThe world needs to see you in the lines,ā he explained. āSomeone can look at my work and know, āthat painting is from Ilker Kocahan.ā You need to draw more and more so that when people look at your drawings, they will know: this work is Venessaās work.ā Then he shrugged and said, āAnd who knows. I will maybe see you in two years at this Starbucks, and by then, your drawings will be truly yours.ā
Iāve shared this story with some close friends who took mild offense on my behalf at his observations, but I really think it took sitting there watching him draw to understand exactly what he was talking about.
Ilker Kocahan has no imposter syndrome. He is supremely confident in every possible way where his art is concerned. The lines that flowed from his pen were fueled by his soul, not his brain. I didnāt think artists like him existed anymore until I was sitting there looking over his shoulder while he scribbled a man into existence, like it was nothing. When I asked if he plots out the perspective on his building sketches in advance, he shook his head no and doodled this on my cake pop wrapper while he rambled on about the components he likes to include in his architecture concepts:
(Donāt worry. I kept it.)
So when he talked about āfinding meā in my sketches, I really think he could senseāby the light scratch of the pencil, the trace evidence on the paper of my erasing and failed attemptsāmy own lack of confidence, my second guessing and self-doubt. My desire to be as good as other artists instead of my desire to express myself.
And in that sense, everything he was saying about my sketchbook was correct. He urged me to get off the iPad as often as possible. To sketch with ink, which is riskier because you canāt erase it, and in that way, give myself no choice but to commit to the lines.
The conversation turned to lighter things after that. Heās apparently an extremely talented basketball player who loves hanging out with his wife and kids. His daughters are both designers. He thinks quirky viral videos are the best thing about the internet. (I agreed.) Heās weak for New York pizza.
Eventually, he bought me a refill for my tea and asked if I would meet him again in a couple of days so he could talk to me about my artwork and help me with my sketching. He even added me as a Facebook friend. When I left the Starbucks to pick up Colin, I was so excited and overwhelmed and grateful to the universe for bringing me into his acquaintance, I texted everyone in my family about it.
But as fate would have it, that night, the local government released its mandate regarding social distancing. Heās likely in Belarus right now with his wife.
I wonāt lie and say Iām not devastated that I lost the chance to be his student for an afternoon. But the impression these coffee shop chats left on me was profound. I think about it all the time. For one who struggles with feeling like the artist version of Pinocchio waiting around for permission to be a real boy, it makes all the difference in the world to linger in the huge, unstoppable energy of someone who lives without an inner critic.
I hope I get to see him again after the quarantine is over. Iād love to see if I can fulfill Ilkerās prophecy and meet back at that Starbucks in two years with a different sketchbook in tow. One that I can hand over knowing without doubt or trepidation that anyone looking for me in the work need look no further than the bold stroke of my hand.
[UPDATE:] I am absolutely gobsmacked and grateful at the way this post has resonated with so many folks on Tumblr, artists and otherwise. Some have asked whether Ilker and I have kept in touch, and yes, we have! He occasionally messages pictures of building designs heās working on or happy family photos (which I assume heās sending en masse to his friends list) and I basically gush in return. Iāll also occasionally drop a line to check in; he knows Iām still working on my inking and sketch work. He remains so very encouraging and kind. He wishes me āhappy art days.ā
That said, you can imagine how my heart sank when last night he sent a message out to his Facebook friends letting us know he contracted Coronavirus and has been hospitalized. Heās been ill for two weeks now.
I asked for his consent to share this with friends in case it could inspire some good vibes, and he agreed. If you felt moved by his wisdom and kindness in the above posts and feel inclined to send a healing thought his way today, I would be grateful. While I believe his constitution is strong thanks to his being so active, this virus doesnāt discriminate, and the world needs humans like Ilker Kocahan right now. (Or at least, I do.)
Thanks, and I promise to report back with any news. ā¤ļø
As promised, I haveĀ an update on Ilkerās condition!
I am happy to report that he is back home from the hospital as of this week and reportedly feeling better. He said he feels extremely lucky and credited his healthy/happy lifestyle for his resilience via text message. I quote:Ā
āNo smoking No Drunk Basketball Good food Family life enjoying And happy characterāĀ
While he was in the hospital he generously texted me photos of little notes heād scrawledĀ on paper napkins of his vitals (temperature, blood pressure, blood O2 levels) since I had asked him to keep me posted. Of all the notes he sent, this one was the most interesting, as it shows theyāve been making patients sleep in a prone position with some kind of ventilation over the face, presumably to leverage gravity in opening up the lungs?
Anyway, Iām so grateful to everyone who sent well wishes and look forward to passing along those kind messages to him after this. Thank you, thank you for those good vibes. Ā ā¤ļø
I hope that if and when I ever come down with something scary like COVID, I can handle it with as much grace as this guy right here:
I genuinely never thought Iād write this update. I was almost positive Ilker and I would never meet at that Starbucks againāthat the universe had swept this one beautiful encounter into my life only to send a pandemic to sweep it back out againābut to my utter shock and astonishment this morning, I got a text message at 7:45 AM:
āIn USA now. Same Starbucks. Same chair now.ā
And yāall, I got my shit together. Tossed my sketchbooks into my canvas bag, herded the kids into the car to bring them to school, then jetted over to that Starbucks with burning eyes and a lump in my throat. As soon as I saw him, he recognized me instantly (even with my mask on) and gave me an enormous heart-exploding hug. āVenessa! Is so wonderful to see you!ā he said at the same time as I said, āIlker, my friend! I canāt believe it!ā, and he put his arm around my shoulder and quickly led me to the counter so he could order me my usual cup of tea.
We only had a little more than a half an hour to chat before he had to go to workāa new architecture project here in DCāduring which he told me all the things heās been up to these last couple of years: the sketching classes he taught in Belarus, the Russian exhibition of his artwork (which included a printed translation of THIS VERY TUMBLR POST), his battle against, not one, but two bouts of COVID, and ultimately, the evacuation of his family after Russiaās attack on Ukraine. And as is his way, he spoke of every challenge he and his family have faced together with gratitude for his health, his resilience, and for the small blessings that enabled him to make his way back to the States. I told him how much I appreciated his attitude toward lifeās ups and downs because Iāve been learning to count my blessings as well, in large part because he told me toāvia text when I was struggling to stay psychologically afloat in the thick of pandemic parenting: āYou have health. You have family You have home and food. All will be well my good friend.ā
He then brought up my art. And guess what? I SHOWED HIM MY SKETCH BOOK.
It wasnāt as full as Iād hoped it would be by the time I saw him again, and I sheepishly shared how hard it was to maintain a good sketching practice during quarantine when it seemed I was working nonstop thanks to the day job, proctoring Zoom school for the small man, homeschooling the smaller man, and freelance work. But I had done my best, managing to fill up at least 2/3 of it in addition to the finished work I posted to social media.
Now, weāve followed each other on Instagram and Facebook since that second meeting two years ago, and while we DMād on a regular basis and he left the occasional comment on my work, I was never quite sure how much of my finished work heād seen (or even had time to see given he was still working and teaching abroad). But as he flipped through my book (nearly every sketch rendered in ink) he said, āIs very good! I watch you art change! You grow so much! I am so proud!ā
When I tell you I could have burst into a rainbow confetti of heart-eye emojis.
Speaking of rainbows: very gently did he ask about the subject matter of my work, which folks who follow my social media accounts know as being mostly representative of LGBTQ+/BIPOC relationships. With trepidation, I told him that I, myself, was a queer BIPOC artist, and that drawing these relationships was a way to validate and love myself, to validate the diverse love of other marginalized groups, and hopefully paint a world into being where such individuals feel seen, comforted, represented, and protected. He nodded along as I explained this, and ultimately put me at ease when he said, āI am man who love woman. But I do not judge on who is gay, who is not gay. Everyone is welcome. As artist, I care about the lines!ā
We returned to talking about family and work after that. I got to spill some secrets about projects Iāve been working on, and he told me heās still playing basketball. He said heās 67 but never wants to retire. He told me his daughters are now scattered and nearly made me cry when he said, āI have daughter in Istanbul, I have daughter in New York, and nowāāhe pointed to meāāI have daughter in DC.ā When it was time for him to get back to his office, he asked me to see if I could find a local sketching club where we can sign up for figure drawing sessions, and we scheduled a date on the calendar for us to meet back at the Starbucks to draw.
And I suppose thereās no better way to conclude this little Tumblr saga than by saying thereās no true conclusion. Itās like this little miracle showed up in my life at exactly the time I most needed to practice trusting in my ability to grow and adapt, to stay soft during adversity, hold space for new relationships, and above all, embrace where I am in my creative journey. Iām so grateful to have made this connection and to share the wisdom itās given me with all of you.
Donāt forget: The world needs to see you in the lines.
A sneak peek into exclusive short stories from a future anthology
Thanks @ashen-crest for suggesting this! I'm running low on topic ideas so if you have any requests or suggestions for what you'd like to see on this blog, please send them in!
Rainy Day Darling @rainydaydarling - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
