Delilah S. Dawson's Blog, page 33

military jacket, STEAMPUNK'D

I shouldn't be allowed near needles, machines, and piping hot irons, but I'm cheap as hell and not willing to pay $69 for the jacket I really want. That's one reason I love steampunk so much-- modding existing items is considered a point of pride.

That's why my first limbo project was taking this jacket:

(worn with steampunk YA author Scott Westerfeld!)
and turning it into this little steampunk bolero:



I didn't take step-by-step pics because I fully intended it to fail.

In any case, the jacket was too large, so I cut off most of the bottom, leaving a cute little wren tail in back. Then I sewed down the hem and put in two darts in back. I cut off most of the sleeves and angled them so they would be more fitted, although they're honestly not as fitted as I'd hoped. Lastly, I cut off the hook and eye and sewed it back on at the bottom of the lapel so that it can be held together if desired.

And that corset? It isn't new. I was irritated to miss a gold and brown tiger-striped corset that went on sale at Damsel in this Dress, and then I realized that my Little Red Riding Hood corset has a lovely gold and tan stripe on the reverse. So I just turned it inside out.

All that, and I escaped with a single broken needle and an iron burn. For me, that's a miracle.

Steampunk'd: Where halfassery is welcome and scars are badges of honor!
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limbo.

I'm there again.

In limbo.

It's the part of the creative cycle where I've just finished a massive, seemingly impossible undertaking. I've forsaken sleep, trashed my diet, and ignored all the people I care about. I haven't bathed, and my toenails are chipped. I am barely functional. But by God, I've crossed the finish line, and it's time to celebrate!

Or is it?

Eh. Not really.

If you're an artist, you're probably familiar with this time, this place. This limbo. You work so hard for it, but when you get here, you don't feel the relief and triumph you've been dreaming of, just the fumbling lack of a goal. You're swamped with the feeling that you should be doing something else, starting over again. That you need a purpose.

Within two hours of finishing my draft and sending it off to my agent, I feel lost, adrift, and, honestly, a little smelly. I'm pretty sure I bathed recently. Wait, what day is it? And why don't we have any groceries?

It's easy to forget that victory isn't always satisfying. That there is no finish line. That reaching your destination doesn't mean you've completed the journey. It's just another check mark, just another nod of the head and email sent, and then it's back to life as normal. And there is no real normal, because everything we do is one of these cycles, unless we go all zen and live in the moment, which is mighty impractical most of the time if you don't want to live in a cardboard box down by the river.

I'll never forget when I was around 9, and my mom told me that my new job was to do the family laundry ever Saturday morning while watching cartoons. It felt good, to have a grown-up responsibility. I gathered it, sorted it, washed and dried and folded it, all while enjoy Dunkin' Donuts and The Shirt Tales. It was done, and I stood over the mounds of fluffy cloth proudly, savoring my triumph.

Then my dad walked in, threw a wad of sweaty clothes in the empty hamper, and grabbed a new shirt off the bottom of the stack, thereby undoing half of my work. And I deflated.

That was the moment that I realized the laundry would never really be "done".

I've hated laundry ever since.

Also yard work, cooking, dishes, vacuuming, and paying bills.

But I write for the same reason I do laundry: because I have to.

Because while I'm in the midst of the crazed work, I look forward to the victory. And when I'm in the limbo following the victory, I look forward to when the next idea takes hold and grips me with possibility. It's all about the hope, the passion, the striving that makes me forget about the limbo.

I love the cycle because it tells me I'm alive. Because it keeps me awake and hungry.

But I hate the cycle because it never ends, and I can only see that clearly when I'm in the limbo.

The cycle is cruel, and the cycle is beautiful.

Long live the cycle!

*

HAM NIGHT!

Do you like any of the following:

*Pirates?
*Dodo birds?
*Monkey butlers?
*Ruining Charles Darwin's day?
*Flight of the Conchords?
*Ham?
*Steampunk? Especially dirigibles and ships?
*Adorable English accents?
*Wallace & Gromit-type claymation?
*Arguments regarding who would win in a fight between sharks and Draculas?
*The same, but jellyfish and Frankensteins?
*Ska?
*Inside jokes?
*Childish jokes?
*Very esoteric and half-hidden jokes?
*Listening to Watson from BBCs Sherlock as "Pirate with a Scarf?"

If you are nodding your head and salivating, then GOOD NEWS!

There exists a movie that includes ALL OF THOSE THINGS.



It's called THE PIRATES! BAND OF MISFITS, which is the dumbest name ever. The poster is likewise awful. But we wanted a fun family outing, and we missed the one where Dwayne Johnson rides a giant bumblebee by ten minutes.

There's only one thing about this movie that I didn't love: THAT NO ONE TOLD ME ABOUT IT.

Seriously-- and I know no one takes me seriously, as well you shouldn't. But if you're a child at heart, go see it.

Then let's have a serious discussion about sharks vs. Draculas.

*

no editing the editing

I'm procrastinating.

I just finished a GINORMOUS revision that sucked out my soul through my earholes, and instead of finishing my final pass, I'm shopping for shoes and contemplating purchasing those cast octopus tentacle earrings I've been eyeing for three years.

What can I say? I have weaknesses.

And I'm drinking Malbec on an empty stomach.

So here's an unedited photoset of me contemplating my recent hair coloring escapade. No more gray! No fancy filters. Just a shaky finger on the laptop fingerpad.







Note: there's a Spin Pin in my mouth in the third pic down. Last pic is zombie.

I don't know why. Just go with it.

Being an artist doesn't always make sense, kids.

*

Crimi-tea!

You know you can bathe with Criminy and smell like Criminy.

But did you know you can DRINK CRIMINY?

That's right, y'all. I put together a custom blended tea, my take on Criminy.



I haven't tried it yet, but I don't know how it could go wrong, iced with a bit of honey. And it's based on a jasmine green tea, which is full of antioxidants!

The inspiration was this line of Avengers, Dr. Who, and Hunger Games teas I found on tumblr.

One more reason to love 2012.

*

my new ink

Guess what, y'all? I GOT A NEW TATTOO!

[insert picture of a green dot]

Why no pic?

Because my toe hurts too much to go through the pedicurian rigmarole.

See, last night, I was writing. I have been writing almost steadily for the last week, as I know that once school is out, I'll never have the energy and time to finish this YA paranormal. So I'm underslept, overcaffeinated, and frenzied. Nothing new.

Inspiration struck, and I reached for my notebook and a green pen. A Magna Tank .5mm gel pen, to be exact.

And then I dropped it.

On my toe.

No, wait. In my toe.

It stuck, point down, in my big toe.

THE PEN STUCK IN MY TOE.

It quivered there like a dagger.

I was part of a game of human mumbletypeg, folks, and it wasn't fun.

I yanked it out and knew immediately that I was marked for life. I squeezed it, dabbed it, moistened it, yes, even tried to suck out the ugly venom of green gel ink, but it was all for naught.

I will have a green dot on my big toe for the rest of my life.

That, dear friends, is hardcore dedication to writing.

*

it's not faire

Once, many moons ago, a penniless college student sat at a table at the Georgia Renaissance Festival, sweating profusely and watching lords and ladies laugh and eat turkey leggs like they were having the best time in the world.

"It's not fair," she said to herself, and the Goblin King did not arrive.

But that girl vowed that one day, she would return. She would return, and she would not be wearing ratty jeans and a tank top that didn't quite hide her bra straps.

No, she would return, and she would return in costume.

Today, friends, was that day.


And, yeah, I guess it wasn't a 100% wench costume, as I knew better than to wear a huge skirt in this kind of heat, and I didn't wear my ginormous pirate hat. But I was in a corset, by God, and no one can argue that, especially since I have super weird tan lines from the corset collar/off-the-shoulder shirt combo.


And I got a SOUVENIR. My daughter and I decided on matching black parasols. We spent the next hour congratulating each other on our wisdom in buying sunshades. It was fantastic.

When I was younger, I barely had enough money to get in the gates. I longed to do exactly what I did today, to feel like I was a part of the splendor and mythology and magic. And getting to do it with this crew made it even sweeter.


Optimus Prime, a witch in cowboy boots, and a self-proclaimed "motorcycle monkey guy with a sword". The world hasn't seen a crew this random since the yacht team in Summer Rental.


That's my brave knight. We let each child choose a souvenir. He chose a big-ass sword.

No one is surprised.


And my witch took off her dress to reveal a pink and teal Autobot shirt, which went well with her new parasol. I can't tell you how much it warms my cold black heart, having a girly girl who loves boy stuff and goth stuff and funny stuff. She's just magical, that child.


Something about that painting looks different.

Maybe it's the flame-covered sandals peeking out underneath.


In conclusion, it's nice when you finally get the things you've always wanted, and they're even better than you ever expected.

*

10 years

May 18, 2002:



May 18, 2012:

Happy Anniversary, Dr. Krog!
At dinner last night, a younger couple sat at the table next to us. And when we mentioned to the waiter that we were celebrating our tenth anniversary, they sheepishly admitted that they were celebrating their first one.

"Can I ask-- what's the secret to ten years?" the girl asked, and I giggled for a minute.

"I married a psychologist," I answered. "So when I say I want to talk about feelings, he's happy to oblige."

And then we all laughed.

But here's the real secret: laughter. We laugh a lot. We have adventures. We whisper during movies. We watch Family Guy and giggle. In short, we still act like we're 18, which is how old we were when we met.

I think the real secret is to change all the time without actually changing.

*

stars and other shiny things

I'm always amazed by the recognition that we are made of star stuff.

And I'm likewise mystified by the fact that our cells are constantly dying and being replaced, and that with some exceptions, I am just a clone of the girl I was seven years ago, who is a clone of who I was when I was in college, who is a clone of who I was in high school, who is a clone of who I was when I puked on that elephant, all the way back to the original me.

I mean... WHOA.

That means I'm two deviations away from the girl I was when I was a teen. It's such a formative time then, when we pick and choose who we want to be, how we want to self-identify, how we will rebel and how we will conform. In most ways, I am not that girl. We don't even have the same name.


And yet, when I go to a thrift store, I can't help but feel that she and I have a lot in common. That picture shows $19 worth of things I would have bought when I was 18, no questions asked. I probably wouldn't have had the guts to wear them back then, but I'm glad I do now.

It kind of blows me away that the substances of which those purchases are made-- they're made of stars, too. I'm made of stars, and my new velvet blazer with the satin ribbon tie is made of stars, and my children are made of stars, and my book is made of stars, and you guys are made of stars. All those little chunks of matter have been around forever, just waiting to become what they are

Again... WHOA.

Here's to constant amazement and further permutations of the stars.

*

the dirty secret about being an author

When I was growing up, I never dreamed of writing a book, much less publishing one. I had no idea what I wanted to do as a career-- only that I wanted to be comfortable. I didn't want to worry.

For a long time, I thought my life's dream was to run the arts center where I grew up, but that didn't happen because I didn't want it badly enough to fight for it. I worked other jobs, just pushing paper to make money. And then I had babies. And then I started writing.

When I started my first book, I thought, "I just want to finish a book. That's enough."

It wasn't.

When I started writing my second book, I thought, "I just want to write a better book. That's enough."

It wasn't.

When I started querying agents, I thought, "I just want to get some requests, maybe some positive feedback. That's enough."

It wasn't.

When I found representation, I thought, "I just want to sell a book. That's enough."

It wasn't.


When I scored a three book deal from an amazing Big Six publishing house, I thought, "I just want to see my book in print. That's enough."

It wasn't.

The dirty secret is that ever since I started writing, nothing I've done has felt like enough. 

I have written more books, some of which have died quietly, some of which haven't sold, some of which are awaiting revision. I have done interviews and guest blogs, and I've been so fortunate to receive fantastic reviews. I've been invited to several conferences. I should be more than satisfied.

But I'm not.

I still feel like I should be doing more, writing more, selling more. I have never been so hungry, so filled with energy. I have never been so anxious to do well, to do better. I have never been ruled by such ambition and anxiety.

And in some ways, it's awesome. In other ways, it's terrifying.

So much of publishing is completely random. Your ranking on Amazon, where your book is placed in bookstores, whether or not someone in high places happens to pick up your book and read the back cover. There is no formula for victory. I have days where I look at my sales and have a mini panic-attack, thinking, OMIGOD, I NEED TO SELL MORE BOOKS OR I AM GOING TO FAIL, even though there is no clear route to selling books and no clear way to know you've failed until it's far too late. I've never had a job with such mystifying, arbitrary rules for success.

I used to think that I would see my book in a bookstore and think, "Well, I did that, and it's done. Awesome."

Instead, I see my book on the shelf and wonder why no one has bought that copy yet.

It's maddening. It's fantastic. I have never felt so alive, so vital. And I can't imagine doing anything else.

So maybe that's the dirty secret. It will never be enough... and you wouldn't want it to be.

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