let's stumble towards success and pack some snacks for little breaks

I am not an artist. I've drawn a few things, but nothing I'm really proud of. I don't draw often, and I don't draw particularly well.

I am astounded at this.

It's not perfect. I know that. The eyes aren't exactly right, I pretty much copied the neck muscles off a Metanoia sketch, and I really haven't a clue how to shade. But... this is, I think, the first time I've used Photoshop to make something totally from scratch, and I honestly am proud of it.

That doesn't mean you can't tear it apart. kat_nano already gave me some suggestions, and I'm totally welcome to others, particularly anatomy- and shading-related ones. I would seriously like to get better at this.

By the way, that's Michael, a character from the book I'll be writing for sweaty_nano. I've tried drawing a few of my characters on paper, but they've never turned out anything like how I picture them. This picture looks almost exactly like the Michael in my head. Maybe his hair is a bit thinner, but that's all. I am very pleased with myself.

I've been working on this book (working title "Ring Free," although I'm positive that won't end up being the actual title) a lot lately, and noticing something as I do. Regardless of whether I intend it or not, each character is taking on aspects of people I know. Some characters start out based on one person and turn into another completely; some are combinations of several people. The ones who don't resemble anyone I've met are the ones I haven't developed much yet. I'm not sure if this is a sign of good writing (basing it on experience) or bad writing (unable to form entirely original characters).

A while ago, maybe the end of last year, I started working on a novel-length story. I stopped when I finally figured out how much I honestly suck at writing long, smoothly connected segments of fiction. A few minutes ago, I opened the folder and reread some of the bits and pieces I'd written, and realized that this story could work as a series of vignettes. And I am relatively decent at those, if my own judgement and the feedback I've gotten on previous work are any clue. I'm trying not to get too excited about this, because every time I get worked up about a writing project, it flops. Still, though, I kind of hope it will work out.

I got back from California today. I spent a lot of time over the course of the weekend with Celeste, the twelve-year-old daughter of my dad's best friend. That child has been through things that I can't even imagine surviving with any sense of sanity whatsoever, and she's still bouncy and exuberant and brilliant. I had a few serious conversations with her, generally late at night when everyone else was asleep, and... well, the situation is incredibly complicated, but it was clear that she needs someone she can talk to, and her court-ordered therapist does nothing but play Sorry and give her chocolate. I was pretty much the first person she felt she could open up to who would actually listen to her. I don't even know how to describe how that makes me feel. Useful, I guess. Needed. I almost never feel needed. I gave her my phone number, and I think she'll call.

The wedding went well, except for my sunburn. I never remember to put on sunscreen until it's too late. Jeanette and Jeffrey seemed to think it was a success, which is all that really matters. After the ceremony and barbecue, we (Clayton, Tessie, Colin and Angela, who we were staying with) went back to Jeanette's house to get some stuff before dinner, and found Jeanette and Jeffrey about to leave on their honeymoon in a completely unadorned vehicle. This, naturally, was unacceptable, so we located a bar of soap (a task that proved far more difficult than one might imagine) and decorated the car for them.

The plane ride back was rather interesting, in that about twenty people decided all at once that they needed to use the bathroom, and I was about number thirteen to actually gain entry. That's never happened on any flights I'd been on before that. When we got back, I realized that I could still get to the library writing group this afternoon. I mentioned this to Rain on IM, and we somehow ended up driving out to Lenexa to get her and bring her along. Jonhenry was at writing group (yay!!!) and, when Rain was being particularly random, told her he knew a psychiatrist and wrote down "Chuck" and a phone number on a piece of paper. We later called the number- needless to say, it did not reach a psychiatrist named Chuck. Rain and Jonhenry came over, the latter for only a short while. We left a series of about twenty-five messages on Dan's answering machine throughout the evening, ate lemon-pepper pasta, took a long walk with the dog, and popped two black balloons. w00t.

Okay, that's about it for now, as I don't feel like doing the IJA entry or HP6 review at the moment.