Ruby Walker's Blog, page 2

Update: It’s Almost Armageddon

AKA: I’m actually finishing a project, could this be a sign of the Apocalypse?

I’m kidding. But according to my spreadsheet, I’m on track to finish this manuscript in less than a month.

 

[image error]First rule of projects: ABC. Always Be Color-coding!

Finish! I will have have actually achieved the result I set out for an entire year ago. I know some people work on a book for ten years, and it’s their magnum opus, but I’m seventeen.

Ten years ago I was seven. I thought people grew new teeth every few years like sharks, and that Europe was a country North of France.

One year ago, I was sixteen. I thought my zine was going to take off. I was still drinking like a fish. I gardened like a fiend. I dabbled very seriously in several religions. I decided to forsake electric light for a few weeks, drunkenly kissed a friend at a party, and then I got really obsessed with Harry Styles.

[image error]I painted him.

Real teen stuff, OK? I swear I change interests every six seconds.

So I’ve been tearing through all the raucous whims of adolescence, and I’ve managed to stick with one project for an entire year. That’s a big deal to me; I’m happier than I can say.

[image error](The glass is full of apple juice.)

 

 

Book Cover Design Hell: Will I Make it Out of this Alive?

I need a book cover, and I need it by the end of the month. I need the agents and editors at the conference I’m attending to take one look at my cover, talk to me for five minutes, and think: “Wow. This girl really has her sh*t together. I want to help her succeed.”

When I began this quest for a cover last month, I tried doing what first came to mind: yellow, because yellow is happy. Some shapes. Maybe millennial pink? But nothing came out looking memorable, or even good.

Obviously first instinct wasn’t going that well– So I decided I wanted to do something a little bit homespun. First, because I don’t have the money to hire a cover designer, and second, because it communicates the personal nature of my book a bit better than something more refined.

I began by accumulating lots of inspiration.

Then, in MS paint or on my phone or with pencil and paper, I tried my hand at a cover of my own. Mostly they were very ugly.

My next idea: a drawing. I needed a better drawing.









 I was happy with this cover. It was balanced, pretty, and it looked as if my hands were holding something precious.

The issue: it didn’t really communicate anything about what the core purpose of the book was. Friends and family said they liked it, but they didn’t love it.

I need a cover people will love.

My latest attempt is this:

I may have to play around with different drawings, but I like the concept I have going now. I just need to make sure it’s pleasing from a design perspective, and I’ll be on my way.

What is your favorite book cover, dear reader? I know we all judge.

5 Paintings of Achilles Lamenting Patroclus’ Death, Ranked In Order Of Gayness

In honor of Pride Month 2018…

I consider this two days PTSOA, or post- The Song of Achilles, which has made living my real life difficult in its wake. The only way it could possibly be improved is if it were some sort of… Very historically inaccurate lesbian re-imagining. That would truly knock my socks off.

As it is, I think it’s the best love story ever written, and I’m sad,

And this is my blog now. So! I think the title explains it all.

5. Briseis mourns Patroclus in the tent of Achilles by Jean Alaux

Achilles looks golden. He is filled with determination, with caustic rage, raising a short sword (dagger?) in the air. Briseis is allowed to weep and cling, but Achilles has to be strong. He isn’t looking at the body. The only hint of softness about him is in his hand, placed over his beloved’s. This is about as gay as sleeping over at your friend’s house, but one of you takes the couch.

4. Achilles Contemplating The Body of Patroclus by Giovanni Antonio Pellegrini.

What can I say about this one? The chiaroscuro on Pat’s face is haunting. The surprised renaissance hand is there, delicately expressive where Achilles’ face shows almost nothing. He looks nearly dead himself. I’m sad again. Half his soul is gone. What’s left but vengeance? About as gay as throwing your legs over your pal’s lap when you sit down to watch some heterosexual sh*t like Pretty Woman.

3. Achilles Lamenting the Death of Patroclus by Gavin Hamilton

Finally, a painting where Achilles gets to actually look sad! Patroclus’ sheet-white corpse draws focus to the swirling center of this masterful painting, but that’s all BS. What of our feelings? Achilles is in agony and so am I. You could look at this painting and think, “Hey, that blond dude must have really cared about Mr. Rigor Mortis over there.” This one’s as gay as holding hands in that way where your fingers interlace.

2. Achilles and the Body of Patroclus by Nikolai Ge

In the same vein as the others, but a more intimate position. Kinda weird to hug a corpse IMO, but I can’t judge. They’re ancient greeks! It’s almost hidden in the shadows but you can clearly see Achilles wiping away tears, lying over Patroclus like he was clearly comfortable doing in life. His eyes are on Patroclus’s face, his expression one of longing: I would give anything to have him again. Just for a second, could he open his eyes and look at me? Best of the Greeks. My Patroclus. My philtatos. Most beloved. Dear Lord, I’m making myself sad again. This one’s as gay as makin’ out.

1. Achilles Displaying the Body of Hector at The Feet of Patroclus by Jean Joseph Taillason

This is a powerful image. I’m shaking– perhaps from the sheer emotion of this painting, perhaps from sleep deprivation. Who’s to say? Now, not a lot of touchy-feely stuff here, because Pat’s corpse is not fresh and it’s probably starting to smell too rank for any quality weeping to occur. But let’s check out the imagery: super dead body of super dead boyfriend, swaddled in blankets on a big fancy platform bed. (Uh. We all grieve in our own ways.) Then there’s Hector, the guy who killed Pat, just junked onto the floor like dirty laundry. Everyone’s crying in the background but Achilles is pointing, dynamic– he’s half mad at this point, or fully mad, wracked with grief.

“Look, there he is!” Achilles looks like he wants Patroclus to sit up, go “Oh, you killed Hector, great! I’m not dead anymore. Let’s go eat off gold plates or whatever.” There is no comparison to make here. This painting is as gay as revenge-slaughtering the man who killed the love of your life, and dumping his body at your dead beloved’s feet. But if I had to estimate? As gay as holding your beloved all night long, adoring the way they breathe slow and calm as you drift off into peaceful sleep.

 

Want more of the homosexual agenda? Make sure follow me and subscribe to my mailing list, because that’s one of the stories in my upcoming book, Advice I Ignored! (Fortunately, though, my first gay crush did not end in anybody getting a spear through the chest.)

 

Exciting News!

I will be attending the 2018 Austin Agents and Editors Conference! I’m so excited, but I also have so much to prepare for.

Who knew making business cards look nice would be so dang hard?

The conference is June 29th to July 1st.

 

5 Steps to Getting Over Yourself and Finally Making a Twitter

     If you’re anything like me, you hate writing blog posts that begin with the words “if you’re anything like me,” and then go on to describe an extremely specific circumstance which only the author’s veritable soulmate could relate to. You detest creating an online projection of yourself that strays further from your true nature with every overthought sentence. Eventually you give up writing in the second person altogether, and the tenuous illusion that you were ever really attempting to connect with anyone but yourself is put down behind the shed like a rabid dog.

So yeah. This is about me. I’m seventeen, and thus I am the only subject I have any experience with. I don’t know enough about the world to claim expertise in anything but anecdotal rambling.

Nobody else I know has this problem, but I hate social media. I hate it in the way some people have taught themselves to hate gambling or drugs. I take little issue with the actual experience of using it: it’s my history of overindulgence that scares me. I finally deleted all of my social media last year. Since then I’ve carefully associated it with that dizzy sensation I get circling the drain that’ll take me down the gutter and into another depression fueled all-nighter. It reminds me of how it feels to be a constant disappointment. You know the feeling: sandy eyelids, stiff upper back, trying to quickly repress shame over the star trek erotica you just read off some Angelfire site that hasn’t been edited since 2002.

[image error]

 

 

1. Acknowledge my fears.

I am scared that, once unleashed again, my tweets will be so good it causes utter societal collapse. Know this: I didn’t retire from posting amid demands of delete your account. I left Twitter last year as a Greek hero ascends to take his place among the stars.

I like thinking things to myself, and then just… not telling anyone. I’ll make a joke in my mind and refuse to share it. It might not be so funny to everyone, but when I am sitting on a grassy hillock and I think, “Gee, what with all this pleasant breeze tousling my hair, [image error]it’s almost as if the atmosphere is petting me,” it feels as though I have spun straw into gold and I am hoarding it in glimmering hanks. When I don’t share that observation with anyone I can pretend it really was the most clever thing anyone’s ever thought. That makes me feel nice.

 

All this is to say, not tweeting became more a point of pride than the tweeting ever had been. Before, I was shouting all my great ideas to a room full of thousands of people who were barely listening. Now it’s yes, lean close child, keep the fire burning and perhaps I will spin you a tale.

I fear I won’t be able to resist posting my most gilded thoughts. And then what will I have left in my brain that’s only for me?

2. Ignore them and make a plan.

I wrote a book called Advice I Ignored. It took a year, and there’s still a bit more editing to do, but I think it could really help someone! It’s an illustrated (with actual ink, not MS paint) self-help book for people who hate both help and themselves. Based on my experiences recovering from depression, I give pragmatic, no BS advice, and I back it up with embarrassing true [image error]stories from the worst part of my life. It’s exactly what I always wished someone told me when I was fourteen: You can change. You can be happy after everything goes to Hell. There are ways out of this.

But the issue with writing a book is this: if I want anyone to read it, and I really do,  I have to shamelessly self-promote. That does not come easy to me. All these websites I’m reading tell me, “Oh, you should have an online platform.” I do not have one of those. I don’t think by fans they meant the three friends I call on the telephone like a goddamn barbarian.

The plan is thus: I will make an account on Twitter dot com. I will make a website. I will make business cards. On those business cards I will print the URL of said Twitter and said website. Adults will look at my cards, my website, and my modestly politics-free Twitter page and they will see a girl who’s determined to work past her pathological revulsion towards marketing. This will endear them to me. They will help me publish my book.

3. Delay the plan.

The longer I refuse to do something I’ve decided to do, the longer I can pretend it isn’t already happening. Three to five business days is a good length of time in which to ruminate/sulk.

4. [Technical mumbo-jumbo.]

  I’m not here to explain to you how to make a Twitter account. In fact, I’m not even sure I’m cogently explaining anything. You’ll need something called e-mail? This post is more about the emotional side of selling your time, effort, and personal information to whomever owns all these strange internet sites. Research suggests Jack Dorsey. I do not know him, and I do not trust a man named Jack.

5. Remember that I am not that special.

I am just one among a sea of hungry mouths, screaming for attention into the boundless void. “Notice me,” I cry, “Notice that I am good and interesting. Help me achieve things!”

[image error] But I must acknowledge that if the void seems uncaring, if I am met with no answer, it isn’t because I’m not good and interesting. It’s because interesting people are plentiful, good people are everywhere, and attention is hard to get just for wanting it desperately. There are so many people who write and draw things.

I’m not saying this to get down on myself. I just have to temper my expectations of internet stardom. Not everyone who’s talented at a few things can gain this elusive platform. I am a good person, yes, but I am not special. Twitter reminds me of that.

I care about Advice I Ignored more than I care about that little jolt of snobbish pride I get from pronouncing, “Oh, Facebook? Who wrote that again, was it Salinger?” If I want readers, the circus of attempting to get noticed online can no longer be avoided.