Delilah S. Dawson's Blog, page 23
November 15, 2012
Help name the 3rd Blud e-novella!
Help me, blogosphere. You're my only hope!
Blud novella #3 needs a title.
Photo of The White Stripes by Annie Liebovitz.
It's set in Criminy's Clockwork Caravan.
He's a bad boy knife thrower with a dark secret.
She's a hard-nosed lady journalist in a leather pith helmet who'll stop at nothing for her story.
Here's a Pinterest board about them-- just begun.
The first two e-novellas are THE MYSTERIOUS MADAM MORPHO and THE PECULIAR PETS OF MISS PLEASANCE.
So we're looking for alliteration. We're partial to the letter D.
I'm digging on THE DANGEROUS DAGGERS OF DESIRE.
Do you like that, or is it too obviously euphemistic?
Because, you know, WICKED AS THEY COME isn't coy at all. :)
Heh.
If anyone can come up with something better, you'll make the Acknowledgments of WICKED AFTER MIDNIGHT, also known as Blud book 3.
Please weigh in in the comments!
* * *
Blud novella #3 needs a title.
Photo of The White Stripes by Annie Liebovitz.
It's set in Criminy's Clockwork Caravan.
He's a bad boy knife thrower with a dark secret.
She's a hard-nosed lady journalist in a leather pith helmet who'll stop at nothing for her story.
Here's a Pinterest board about them-- just begun.
The first two e-novellas are THE MYSTERIOUS MADAM MORPHO and THE PECULIAR PETS OF MISS PLEASANCE.
So we're looking for alliteration. We're partial to the letter D.
I'm digging on THE DANGEROUS DAGGERS OF DESIRE.
Do you like that, or is it too obviously euphemistic?
Because, you know, WICKED AS THEY COME isn't coy at all. :)
Heh.
If anyone can come up with something better, you'll make the Acknowledgments of WICKED AFTER MIDNIGHT, also known as Blud book 3.
Please weigh in in the comments!
* * *
November 14, 2012
on the topic of virgins
Currently on the table: the third e-novella in the Blud series.
Dreaming up a new story is one of my very favorite things to do. For a novella, I get to cram all the swoon, spark, smut, adventure, and excitement into 30,000+ words as possible. It's a challenge-- and a joy.
The first task is to settle on a heroine and hero who are uniquely suited for each other. I've known the hero in this one for a while, and I'm excited to bring Marco Tarasque to the page. But the heroine is just beginning to solidify. When I'm cogitating, I consider a wide range of characters, switching them out of that empty spot like paper dolls, seeing who fits best with the character that first leaped into my mind. And while considering likely partners for Marco and considering the world of Sang, I noticed something interesting about my Blud heroines: out of all 6 stories, only one lead character is a virgin-- and that one is far from a swooning flower.
In the romance biz, virgins are common currency. There's a certain delicious push and pull to a powerful, older alpha male and a wide-eyed girl waiting to be awakened to her power, beautiful and ripe for the picking. And of course there's a precedent for the lure of purity in nature and in history, where males instinctually know that a virgin will bear their young exclusively. Even if a virgin is plucky or rebellious when clothed, she's still going to be pliable and innocent in the bedroom, which is considered desirable. As the stand-in for the romance reader, a virgin provides an opportunity to hearken back to that first thrill of sexual knowledge, but always after submitting completely to a hero who has complete mastery of her pleasure.
But you know what?
I think virgins in romance books are overrated.
While there's something to be said for purity, for waiting, for making sure that it's the right time and the right guy and the right circumstances, I'll tell you a secret: I lost my virginity early, and I'm damn glad I did. My first was a thoughtful, gentle boy who cared deeply for my feelings and comfort, and even if I knew at the time that he wasn't "the one", I knew that it was a safe place, a safe time for me to give up that vulnerability and gain the confidence and knowledge of a woman. I wasn't waiting for perfection, and I wasn't expecting halos of light and angels singing and little birds with flowery garlands. I didn't expect to feel different afterwards, to be fundamentally changed. But I was, and I learned it the next year when I was stalked, cornered, and raped.
If I had waited longer, as society tells me to, then my first experience would have been one of pain, fear, and cruelty. I might have been damaged beyond repair. As it was, I survived, and I healed, and I was grateful that my first time was gentle and slow and well within my power, my choosing, that there was a precedent for love and tenderness.
And while romances featuring virgins almost always have a hero who is gentle and kind with his lady love, I like to write a female lead with a little life under her belt. I find women with power, with a past, far more interesting. And the kind of heroes I write would rather tempt and woo an experienced woman into opening up than court and overpower a sweet young thing who is easily controlled or characterized by her naivete. I'm not saying that there's anything wrong with virgins, because obviously we've all been there. And I'm not saying that virgins can't be fierce, powerful, and passionate. And I'm not saying I'll never write a virgin heroine, because I have and surely will again.
I've simply realized that I would rather focus on passion and mutual joy than awkwardness and pain when writing that first, thrilling meeting of bodies. My heroines don't need a dominating father figure to open their eyes to sexuality; they need an equal partner who gives them a reason to let someone in.
And so, as I prepare to write about Marco and Ginger in the caravan, I look forward to crafting a heroine with a past, with a spine of steel, with a sense of adventure and a control of her own sexuality. She won't choose to fall in love because he's an ideal man, a rich vampire, an earl, or some other unattainably perfect deflowering machine that she's unable, in her naivete, to resist. She's going to fall because something in him speaks to something in her, creature to creature. She's going to fall because she wants an adventure. In short, she's going to fall because she damn well wants to.
Some women don't need to be awakened; they need an equal to dream alongside them.
***
NOTE!
If you disagree or would like to contest a point, PLEASE DO. Just because I admitted vulnerability doesn't mean you have to say something nice or hold your tongue. This is my opinion only, and I understand that much of it comes from my experience. Polite, thoughtful dialog is *always* welcome.
***
Dreaming up a new story is one of my very favorite things to do. For a novella, I get to cram all the swoon, spark, smut, adventure, and excitement into 30,000+ words as possible. It's a challenge-- and a joy.
The first task is to settle on a heroine and hero who are uniquely suited for each other. I've known the hero in this one for a while, and I'm excited to bring Marco Tarasque to the page. But the heroine is just beginning to solidify. When I'm cogitating, I consider a wide range of characters, switching them out of that empty spot like paper dolls, seeing who fits best with the character that first leaped into my mind. And while considering likely partners for Marco and considering the world of Sang, I noticed something interesting about my Blud heroines: out of all 6 stories, only one lead character is a virgin-- and that one is far from a swooning flower.
In the romance biz, virgins are common currency. There's a certain delicious push and pull to a powerful, older alpha male and a wide-eyed girl waiting to be awakened to her power, beautiful and ripe for the picking. And of course there's a precedent for the lure of purity in nature and in history, where males instinctually know that a virgin will bear their young exclusively. Even if a virgin is plucky or rebellious when clothed, she's still going to be pliable and innocent in the bedroom, which is considered desirable. As the stand-in for the romance reader, a virgin provides an opportunity to hearken back to that first thrill of sexual knowledge, but always after submitting completely to a hero who has complete mastery of her pleasure.
But you know what?
I think virgins in romance books are overrated.
While there's something to be said for purity, for waiting, for making sure that it's the right time and the right guy and the right circumstances, I'll tell you a secret: I lost my virginity early, and I'm damn glad I did. My first was a thoughtful, gentle boy who cared deeply for my feelings and comfort, and even if I knew at the time that he wasn't "the one", I knew that it was a safe place, a safe time for me to give up that vulnerability and gain the confidence and knowledge of a woman. I wasn't waiting for perfection, and I wasn't expecting halos of light and angels singing and little birds with flowery garlands. I didn't expect to feel different afterwards, to be fundamentally changed. But I was, and I learned it the next year when I was stalked, cornered, and raped.
If I had waited longer, as society tells me to, then my first experience would have been one of pain, fear, and cruelty. I might have been damaged beyond repair. As it was, I survived, and I healed, and I was grateful that my first time was gentle and slow and well within my power, my choosing, that there was a precedent for love and tenderness.
And while romances featuring virgins almost always have a hero who is gentle and kind with his lady love, I like to write a female lead with a little life under her belt. I find women with power, with a past, far more interesting. And the kind of heroes I write would rather tempt and woo an experienced woman into opening up than court and overpower a sweet young thing who is easily controlled or characterized by her naivete. I'm not saying that there's anything wrong with virgins, because obviously we've all been there. And I'm not saying that virgins can't be fierce, powerful, and passionate. And I'm not saying I'll never write a virgin heroine, because I have and surely will again.
I've simply realized that I would rather focus on passion and mutual joy than awkwardness and pain when writing that first, thrilling meeting of bodies. My heroines don't need a dominating father figure to open their eyes to sexuality; they need an equal partner who gives them a reason to let someone in.
And so, as I prepare to write about Marco and Ginger in the caravan, I look forward to crafting a heroine with a past, with a spine of steel, with a sense of adventure and a control of her own sexuality. She won't choose to fall in love because he's an ideal man, a rich vampire, an earl, or some other unattainably perfect deflowering machine that she's unable, in her naivete, to resist. She's going to fall because something in him speaks to something in her, creature to creature. She's going to fall because she wants an adventure. In short, she's going to fall because she damn well wants to.
Some women don't need to be awakened; they need an equal to dream alongside them.
***
NOTE!
If you disagree or would like to contest a point, PLEASE DO. Just because I admitted vulnerability doesn't mean you have to say something nice or hold your tongue. This is my opinion only, and I understand that much of it comes from my experience. Polite, thoughtful dialog is *always* welcome.
***
November 9, 2012
a study in opposites
This week I:
Did Archer Rows at the gym and was asked to show off my bow.
&
Am now at a literary festival, swooning over swoopy couches.
And tomorrow, I get to be on panels with really cool people!
And eat Mexican food!
And look at beautiful purple mountains!
The world is my oyster, and I shall be the irritating bit of gravel that forms a pearl.
* * *
Did Archer Rows at the gym and was asked to show off my bow.
&
Am now at a literary festival, swooning over swoopy couches.
And tomorrow, I get to be on panels with really cool people!
And eat Mexican food!
And look at beautiful purple mountains!
The world is my oyster, and I shall be the irritating bit of gravel that forms a pearl.
* * *
November 8, 2012
ave, storyteller
Back in 1998, I was mostly an idiot.
I had just finished my freshman year of college and decided to stay for summer school, because I was just that kind of overachiever. I secured a haunted dorm room, made plans with my boyfriend, and registered. Pickings were slim, and the only classes I remember were Cryptography and Classics.
My relationship with studying history has always been conflicted. If the teacher is a good storyteller, I really enjoy it. If the teacher just woodenly outlines the book, I stop caring. Therefore, when I arrived for my first day of Classics, I had my reservations. With two 5s in AP History, I didn't need to take a single History class in college. So when Professor Best, a gentleman with an old-fashioned, patrician Southern accent, explained that only one person in the class would get an A, three people would get Bs, and the rest would fail, I had to stop and think.
Risk my perfect GPA for a class I didn't even need?
I looked around at my fellow classmates. They looked terrified.
"You get one class," I said to myself, eyes narrowed as I watched Professor Best get comfortable. "If this lecture isn't amazing, I'm dropping."
As soon as he started speaking, I was spellbound. It ended up being one of my favorite classes in college. I can still remember sitting, rapt and barefoot, as he described the battle at Thermopylae. I can hear his voice as he raged, "You come back with your shield, or YOU COME BACK ON IT." I can still remember the way every test felt like a personal dare. And I recall the genuine pride I felt when I received high marks. For once, I was actually working my ass off for my As. Not that you knew it, when speaking to Professor Best. He was stern, strict, and proud, and he never, ever had a kind word for anyone. He was downright verbally abusive to the kids who deserved it. But his lectures were so thrilling that I didn't mind.
The final for that class was an unholy beast, and I destroyed it. In order to find out our grades, we had to come by his office to check a list, and it so happens that when I came by, he was in. He stood, chin high, hands clasped.
"Miz Southard," he said, and he pronounced it Suhhh-thuuuud. "Is your mother living?"
"Yes, sir."
"You tell her..."
He leaned back even further, pinned me with his sharp glare.
"You tell her I said she raised you right."
It came out raaaaaat.
Honestly, that's one of my favorite moments from college. I graduated a year early with honors, but that was the first time I accepted a challenge, took a risk, rose to the occasion, and really glowed with accomplishment. Professor Best's good esteem meant the world to me and still does.
But that was supposed to be the last class he taught at UGA. I tried looking him up to see if he is still living, but have you ever tried Googling "Professor Best"? It doesn't work at all. And I don't remember his first name, although I think it might have been Carl. (Note: we found him! His name is Edward!)
I try not to be a person who carries regrets. But when I think back to that class, to that summer, I wish I had spent more time at college doing the unsafe thing. Instead of getting an art degree as fast as possible with a minimum of trouble, I wish I had studied something new, taken more risks, learned more things outside of my comfort zone. I wish I hadn't given up on Italian as soon as my degree requirements were met. I wish I had studied something that wasn't art, because I was already an artist. I could have been something else, too.
I was the only person in that class who earned an A, and of all the As I've ever earned, that one meant the most. But in the end, the grade wasn't what mattered--it was the storytelling that brought history to life and stayed with me. When I stood on the plain of Thermopylae the next summer, I had tears coursing down my cheeks as I heard Professor Best's voice in my head, recounting the battle. And when I saw 300, I hoped that he lived to see it, even if it just made him angry.
Wherever you are, Professor Best, thank you.
* * *
I had just finished my freshman year of college and decided to stay for summer school, because I was just that kind of overachiever. I secured a haunted dorm room, made plans with my boyfriend, and registered. Pickings were slim, and the only classes I remember were Cryptography and Classics.
My relationship with studying history has always been conflicted. If the teacher is a good storyteller, I really enjoy it. If the teacher just woodenly outlines the book, I stop caring. Therefore, when I arrived for my first day of Classics, I had my reservations. With two 5s in AP History, I didn't need to take a single History class in college. So when Professor Best, a gentleman with an old-fashioned, patrician Southern accent, explained that only one person in the class would get an A, three people would get Bs, and the rest would fail, I had to stop and think.
Risk my perfect GPA for a class I didn't even need?
I looked around at my fellow classmates. They looked terrified.
"You get one class," I said to myself, eyes narrowed as I watched Professor Best get comfortable. "If this lecture isn't amazing, I'm dropping."
As soon as he started speaking, I was spellbound. It ended up being one of my favorite classes in college. I can still remember sitting, rapt and barefoot, as he described the battle at Thermopylae. I can hear his voice as he raged, "You come back with your shield, or YOU COME BACK ON IT." I can still remember the way every test felt like a personal dare. And I recall the genuine pride I felt when I received high marks. For once, I was actually working my ass off for my As. Not that you knew it, when speaking to Professor Best. He was stern, strict, and proud, and he never, ever had a kind word for anyone. He was downright verbally abusive to the kids who deserved it. But his lectures were so thrilling that I didn't mind.
The final for that class was an unholy beast, and I destroyed it. In order to find out our grades, we had to come by his office to check a list, and it so happens that when I came by, he was in. He stood, chin high, hands clasped.
"Miz Southard," he said, and he pronounced it Suhhh-thuuuud. "Is your mother living?"
"Yes, sir."
"You tell her..."
He leaned back even further, pinned me with his sharp glare.
"You tell her I said she raised you right."
It came out raaaaaat.
Honestly, that's one of my favorite moments from college. I graduated a year early with honors, but that was the first time I accepted a challenge, took a risk, rose to the occasion, and really glowed with accomplishment. Professor Best's good esteem meant the world to me and still does.
But that was supposed to be the last class he taught at UGA. I tried looking him up to see if he is still living, but have you ever tried Googling "Professor Best"? It doesn't work at all. And I don't remember his first name, although I think it might have been Carl. (Note: we found him! His name is Edward!)
I try not to be a person who carries regrets. But when I think back to that class, to that summer, I wish I had spent more time at college doing the unsafe thing. Instead of getting an art degree as fast as possible with a minimum of trouble, I wish I had studied something new, taken more risks, learned more things outside of my comfort zone. I wish I hadn't given up on Italian as soon as my degree requirements were met. I wish I had studied something that wasn't art, because I was already an artist. I could have been something else, too.
I was the only person in that class who earned an A, and of all the As I've ever earned, that one meant the most. But in the end, the grade wasn't what mattered--it was the storytelling that brought history to life and stayed with me. When I stood on the plain of Thermopylae the next summer, I had tears coursing down my cheeks as I heard Professor Best's voice in my head, recounting the battle. And when I saw 300, I hoped that he lived to see it, even if it just made him angry.
Wherever you are, Professor Best, thank you.
* * *
November 4, 2012
field trip to the blud farm!
Today, we went to the Yellow River Game Ranch, home of Georgia's official prognosticating groundhog, General Beauregard Lee.
Yes, Beau and I are old friends.
But he was asleep in his plantation house today. What do you expect when he only works one day a year?
But we did see lots of other fun animals.
Like this alpaca.
And this bludbunny. Lots of bludbunnies, actually.
My son saw them and screamed, OH NO DOSE BLUDBUNNIES WILL EAT MY TOES!
And then he warmed up and fed them crackers, after seeing me mobbed by floppy-eared savages who didn't eat a single one of my toes.
Also, I kissed a little ass.
Fine holiday fun was had by all.
* * *
October 31, 2012
the vlog in which I TAKE IT ALL OFF*
Takin' it all off and tellin' spooky stories! Just for you!
Happy Halloween, y'all!
* * *
*"it" = mime makeup. Sorry for any confusion.
October 30, 2012
WIPsnippet
His brain is a nest of snakes and buzzing hornets, and he wants to kill this girl and kiss her and shake her until her teeth rattle, demanding to know how he knows her, why she’s boring into the soft parts of him that should be completely gone, replaced with steel and fire.
***
I'm working on something completely different from anything I've written before. It's electrifying, being on unfamiliar ground, trying something completely new. All I can say is that it's a gritty scifi with a male protagonist, no romance. And if you want to get a feel for it. you can check out this playlist.
October 29, 2012
a portrait of the author over three years
This is me, in my office, working. Very serious. Murdering all sorts of people.
When I looked at today's date, I had an odd little twinge of deja vu. Something in my brain pinged about Gmail, and that's when I realized that it was around this time three years ago when I opened my authorly email address and sent out my very first query letter. Thus began an hour's worth of scouring my Sent Mail folder to see what I've been working on.
Here's the madness of creation. I haven't included data on various drafts, revisions, PR stuff. Just books started, abandoned, finished, sold. Busy busy busy.
Sent first query for FERRYTALE: October 25, 2009 (to Joanna Stampfel-Volpe)
Sent last query for FERRYTALE/abandoned: December 25, 2009
Request for more: 12+
Offers of representation: 0
Briefly believe I have a pub offer, which is actually a vanity press: January 15, 2010
Number of queries sent for FERRYTALE: 53
(quirky, mythology-based romance)
Sent first query for SCRITCH: January 13, 2010 to Elana Roth
Number of queries sent for SCRITCH: 64
First agent phone call: March 23, 2010
Number of agent offers: 2
Number of times SCRITCH went on submission: 2
Officially shelved after going to the table twice: February 2011
(middle grade adventure, The Borrowers x Labyrinth)
Finished frst draft of BLUD (working title of Wicked as They Come): May 26, 2010
Sent WICKED AS THEY COME to agent: July 5, 2010
Sent revision of WICKED AS THEY COME to agent: September 20, 2010
WICKED AS THEY COME goes on submission: January 5, 2011
WICKED AS THEY COME sells at 3-way auction: February 14, 2011
WICKED AS THEY COME publishes: March 27, 2012
WICKED AS THEY COME + book 2 sell to Bastei Lubbe in Germany: May 8, 2012
(steampunk paranormal romance, 110k)
Finished first draft of THE PSYCHOPOMP OF UMBRA: August 10, 2010
UMBRA goes on sub, doesn't sell, is shelved: December 2011
(creepy middle grade adventure)
Finished first draft of ATTACK OF THE BATSH*T BIMBOS: September 18, 2010
ATTACK shelved; agent didn't like: April 18, 2011
*Note: I love this book and want to make it into a graphic novel.
(teen geek zombie farce)
Started PRETTY LITTLE THINGS GO BOOM: December 14, 2010
Abandoned PLTGB at 150 pages: January 26, 2011
*Note: Loved the idea, didn't spend enough time on plot and character.
(YA superhero farce)
Started BLACK PARADE: April 11, 2011 (abandoned at 20k)
*Note: Might finish one day.
(contemprary YA, girl sent to Blud world)
Started ROSE THE SUNBEAR: May 3, 2011
Finished ROSE THE SUNBEAR: May 3, 2012
*Note: Birthday gift for my husband, agent hasn't seen. Considering another edit and sub.)
(middle grade mythological)
Started LOVE YOU FOREVER (Ink & Bone): April 13, 2011
Finished first draft of INK & BONE: May 18, 2011
Submitted INK & BONE to agent after major revision: October 25, 2011
Shelved; author and agent unable to agree after another major revision: July 2, 2012
*Note: THIS IS THE BOOK OF MY HEART. It's going to be sold, one day, no matter what.
(YA ghost thriller/suicide/issues/romance)
Started SPARROWHAWK: May 24, 2011
Abandoned SPARROWHAWK at 58 pages: August 16, 2011
*Note: Love the concept/imagery/characters, didn't pay enough attention to plot. May finish one day.
(alt history YA based on Alexander McQueen's Savage Beauty + goblins)
Started HIS GOLDEN EYES: STEAMPUNK ROBIN HOOD: September 30, 2011
Finished first draft HIS GOLDEN EYES: December 31, 2011
*Note: In edits.
(romance)
Started PAYBACK/DEBT-FREE AMERICA: October 20, 2011
Finished first draft of PAYBACK: November 11, 2011
*Note: Agent has not seen. Needs editing.
(YA pre-dystopian)
Started writing THE MYSTERIOUS MADAM MORPHO: January 25, 2012
Finish first draft of THE MYSTERIOUS MADAM MORPHO: February 13, 2012
To editor: March 12, 2012
E-published: October 2, 2012
(Blud e-novella #1.5, 34k)
Started writing WICKED AS SHE WANTS: February 16, 2011
Back into WICKED AS SHE WANTS: March 13, 2012
Finished first draft of WICKED AS SHE WANTS: April 19, 2012
Publishing date: April 2013
(paranormal romance Blud #2)
Started first draft of SERVANTS OF THE STORM: July 23, 2011
Finished first draft of SERVANTS OF THE STORM: August 7, 2011
Sent SotS to agent: November 25, 2011
Finished big revisions on SotS and sent to agent: May 30, 2012
SotS goes on exclusive submission to S&S: June 19, 2012
SotS sells to Simon Pulse: June 27, 2012
SotS publishing date: August 2014
(creepy YA paranormal)
Started THE PECULIAR PETS OF MISS PLEASANCE: June 9, 2012
Finished THE PECULIAR PETS OF MISS PLEASANCE: July 25, 2012
Publishing date: April 2013
(Blud e-novella #2.5, 37k)
Started BLUD 3: June 24, 2012
Started THE THREE LIVES OF LYDIA: August 15, 2012
Finished TTLofL: August 25, 2012
Publishing date: August 2013
(Blud short story, 10k for CARNIEPUNK! anthology)
Started SELECTION: October 21, 2012
Currently at 24k
(gritty scifi, male protag)
October 28, 2012
come away with me
It happened at dusk. At the gloaming.
I was up in a hot air balloon, looking down on a plantation house surrounded by ancient pecan trees. The fire was hot on my face, the moon rising among the clouds. I disembarked as darkness struck and strolled past the torches lighting the path to a grand tent. As I came around the corner, I heard music. It was Norah Jones singing Come Away With Me, and I stopped where I was, alone beside a carriage house, hidden in shadow.
That moment held a sort of magic, and I was transfixed.
If I had been in a movie, there would have been someone waiting under the tent, arm held out invitingly for a slow dance of forgotten steps, of a cheek on a shoulder, of shining eyes. It was the moment when everything misunderstood is made plain, when unanswered questions are finally resolved. The kind of moment where a spotlight shines on you, and everything else melts away, and you're in a little bubble, smiling a secret smile. A hundred different stories went through my mind about magical things that could have been happening.
But they didn't, because I was alone.
The moment was there, and I was there, and that was all.
I stayed where I was until the song was over, swaying gently, arms wrapped around my waist. I watched a few people dancing under the tent, the lights twinkling around them like stars as they laughed. And I couldn't help thinking that somewhere, someone was having that moment where everything changes, that someone was experiencing magic.
It just wasn't my turn.
But there was a certain magic in that, too.
Even when nothing changed, something changed.
I'll never hear that song the same again.
* * *
October 26, 2012
sketches
I found an old sketchbook while decluttering the studio tonight.
I'm pretty sure I actually came up with that. At least, no one else did, according to Google.I used to be deep.
The book is fat with quick works-- roosters and sea birds and octopuses and frogs.I sat in on a mixed media class with artist Frank Shelton back in 2005, while I was working toward my one-woman show, HUNGER.Frank encouraged us to keep sketchbooks, and I'm glad I did.
My show included mixed media on board and canvas, one huge 8x4, and about 60 half-animal mermaids made of clay. The Atlanta Journal Constitution came out and took pictures for a 2-page spread.There were cream puffs.It was awesome.
The whole show grew from one article about how albatrosses accidentally feed trash to their chicks, and then the babies starve to death with bellies full of plastic. It made me think-- not only about the wretched things we're doing to the world. But also about the nature of hunger, of striving.
I want to always be hungry, but I don't want to stuff myself with the wrong food.
Tonight was a good reminder. I put all the pages back and shut the book-- as far as it will shut. It's back on the shelf until the next time I discover it.
Stay hungry, y'all, but only eat things that'll make you grow.
* * *
