i’ve been writing bucket-loads of bad poetry instead of getting drawing done. whenever i open my journal, my tormented thoughts spill out in my juvenile voice. so i haven’t gotten much drawing done. i did try to fill up this page with some drawings. drawings of words. describing my rabid state.
but, in theory, moving my hand is moving my creativity…or something like that. there’s something there about how writing by hand…drawing…how it creates bridges….
okay, i’m just rationalizing now.
page 34 & 35 are in the works. i drew the panels.
i sometimes wonder if i should use less panels & open the page up more. but i kinda like panels. some order to the chaos.
i hope my life mellows out soon and stops taking me for this twisted, fucked-up, roller coaster of a ride i’m on right now. i could use some peace. my art could use some of the attention i’ve been giving a certain stupid situation i am in.
as much as i complain about my kids & my husband, their distractions are a part of my life and i love them for it. they keep my life interesting and give me inspiration. i do not need any psycho hello kitty drama clogging up my creative process…keep your eyes peeled for a hello kitty zombie for me to decapitate. it’s bound to happen.
or lack thereof?
i want to practice drawing dusty who will eventually return to the story. this was drawn the upteenth time my kids made me take them outside. i was all like, “i will just draw while they play.” i got the above drawn just as poppy decided to plop down in my lap and nest there. poppy wants to be held. he wants to be nursed. he wants to be outside. usually all three at the same time. which makes it really difficult to draw.
can blogging about my inability to get any drawing done count as process? it is part of the process, in its way. i do get a lot of thinking about moses jones done as i chase, soothe, and distract small children.
dusty is the one who clogs up my thought process with daily drama. so much drama! just to insure his return to the storyline? he is lucky i love him so much that i will not sacrifice his character to a mob of famished zombies.
look how pretty he is. how am i supposed to resist? i can’t just feed him to the zombies. which, by the way, is not the appropriate way to deal with relationship problems…apparently. i guess you’ll all know if i manage to be mature and make things work with dusty despite our differences by how he plays out in the comic. hopefully, he will not end up as zombie fodder. don’t expect a “happily ever after,” but maybe there can at least be less abandonment and bitterness–& more sex.
austin kleon in his artist self-help book, steal like an artist, advises you to lead a boring life so you can get work done. as a mother of four living in crazytown, i respond, “ha!” easy for you to say, mr. kleon. i don’t think artists who suffered bouts of depression & mania, who turned to drugs & alcohol to quiet the demons in their heads, who found themselves in complicated lives with hordes of children, etc. etc. i don’t think these artists chose these lifestyles thinking it would make them better artists. it’s easy for someone who doesn’t come from a background of abuse, who doesn’t suffer mental health issues, it’s easy for a person like that to advise others to “be boring.” but as an adult child from an abusive background, i have found that keeping life boring is a struggle. as an artist mother to four children, a boring life is a flushed away luxury. right now there is a screaming toddler in my arms demanding to nurse (he wants to nurse non-stop, it seems.) i tried to fill a pen with ink & had to stop to pull misha off of poppy whom she was repeatedly body slamming as they fought over a book.
fuck, wouldn’t a boring life be awesome?
i’m not even going to tell you about my mother’s day….
but i was able to etch out a drawing of poppy as he nursed. i added horns & wings. because, they are there. you just can’t see them unless you really really look. i don’t like drawing from real objects very often. i prefer to pull things out of my head. that’s probably the real reason i added horns & wings to a sketch of the baby latched onto my nipple. portraits of babies are usually creepy. so i think the artist should just admit it and go with it and go ahead and creep out any portrait of a baby.
page 32 should be easy to finish–in theory. maybe i’ll dose the kids with benedryl (just kidding, child services!) and not think about dusty’s stalker or where we’re going to live when the lease is up or how the fuck i am going to make money to support my hoarde….
at this point, misha is shoving shrek 2 at me, ignoring the fact that i am using the laptop she wants to play her movie on. poppy is nursing, falling asleep and shrieking every time i jostle him. fidgit & iggy are fighting about whether or not iggy washed his hands after he pooped & before he touched fidgit.
no matter how boring i am, my life won’t stop being an episode of crazytown, usa (my next graphic novel.)
i survived 6 days of sick poppy. i was thrown up on 17 times…but only pooped on once.
meanwhile, i’m broke. we need to find a place to live. iggy is tragic & manipulative beyond his years. poppy is teething. misha and fidgit bicker despite my logically pointing out that he is 3 times her age; therefore, he should be 3 times more mature. and dusty…. my dusty. our relationship is a source of inspiration. a source of devastation. a source of hope and happiness and horrible angst. that’s how love is for some of us. it’s not all romantic comedies and sitcoms. i’ve accepted that. some love is dystopian katana-wielding madness–in a good way.
page 32 is in the works. i am also trying to draw when i can to keep me & my pens fluid. i also started trying to log my day to day, one of austin kleon’s suggestions from steal like an artist. so far i’ve logged about two crappy days. i’m hoping i can log about better days soon.
check this out for some of my angst-y middle school level poetry: http://quixoticmama.com/2015/05/08/the-scars-we-wear/
i kind of enjoyed my post today at quixotic mama (my alter ego to apocalyptic mama). i thought you might, too.
just finish inking page 31. how hard can it be? you’re already half done with the ink brush process….
ah yes, should be simple, right?
but, you see, dusty has this stalker ex-girlfriend. i have trust issues. and poppy has a stomach virus.
i did not sleep at all the night before last. not a wink. instead, i obsessed about seemingly incriminating love notes from the stalker chick and cleaned up baby puke. by the end of it all, i was puked on 12 times and had burned two pocketfuls of love notes while neurotically smoking cigarettes. i am not a smoker. i wanted to puke. the cigarettes? the deep, intense fear of betrayal? the baby’s stomach virus?
it’s a good thing i don’t actually have a katana.
page 31 remains sitting, not touched once for all my lack of sleep, half-finished on my desk.
but here’s a doodle i did the night before this ordeal began.
i should stick to my chinese brush. i tried to use the paint program on my computer to cover up the words that surrounded this picture. i lack control…maybe it’s an unsophisticated program as well….
so this is a picture from my journal. when i don’t get a chance to work on comics, i try to at least draw in my journal. being that my personal/romantic life is crazy right now, the words written in my journal were a bit…er, crazy, as well. i didn’t think you should have to suffer that close of a view of my psyche. so i covered the words with red using “paint.” it’s not pretty, but it protects my audience.
i write fiction for a reason. the crazy of my real life needs to be buffered into fiction.
take dusty. my dusty. right now we are trying to get back together & be a family…but there is a stalker girlfriend factor. only i could be trying to raise four kids and date my ex-husband while some girl he fooled around with & is having difficulty breaking up with leaves garbage bags full of stuffed animals on our front step. should i do a journal blog telling the public of my psychotic personal life? or should i incorporate it into a fictional telling of a post-apocalyptic dystopia?
it will make a good story.
it does not make good real life.
anyhoo. the first draft of page 29 is done. i just have to flood it with ink now. using my chinese brush, of course. i like the way it looks. i like that i feel like my art is improving.
maybe i should learn how to use my paint program….
or maybe i should remain a stubborn luddite.
i have been having a hard time. not taking classes, being at the dead end of a relationship, trying to be a good mom and feeling like a complete humorless grump, unable to picture a future where i exist as anything but a failure…. i have sunk into a funk. being in a funk means little motivation for creation.
plus! my kids have been sick. the baby has it the worst and is not letting me get any sleep. no sleep equals no being able to stay up late to work on moses jones.
and today i broke the tip off one of my new rapidograph pens. the 0/35 pen. the one i have been using the most. if there is a budding benefactor of my arts out there….
but i have been drawing a little regardless. during the day when i get a smidge of freedom and no one is on top of me to bump and torment me. of course, as soon as they see i am about to give my attention to something other than them, they are quick to jump, bump, and torment. maybe i should start taking my art supplies to the bathroom with me (the only door with a lock.)
my six year old draws the most brilliant monsters. he is my inspiration for many creations. my nine year old helps me with squid and sharks, my six year old helps me draw monsters. (this is one of his:)
today i wrote a letter to a past inspiration of mine. my favorite ex-fiance. i have written him many letters and hesitate to send him yet another neurotic letter, but it’s stamped and ready to go anyway–and it was my last stamp–so i have to send it, right? i’ve had one really good relationship out of too many relationships. and i fucked it up as brilliantly as i could. i’m sure i am just a bump in the road of his love life, but i like to think there is still something there. so i wrote him a long and rambling derailed train of thought of a letter today. and i drew him a picture to show him how special, brilliant, and lovable i am despite what we both know to the contrary. it’s a variation on a sketch i did earlier.
now i am going to watch the second half of serenity –hopefully before the baby wakes up again–and hopefully while working on the next page of moses jones.
sleep tight, y’all.
waiting for my car to be fixed–or to not be fixed as it turned out–i did this doodle. no. i don’t do drugs. my head is just a weird place to live. sometimes too weird. sometimes too dark. but there it is. being weird & dark helps in the art department.
i was getting my car fixed because i’m trying to sell it. all day long, i stress about money. i have none, and i don’t know how to get any. ever since i was 17 i was financially independent. all my life. then i became a stay-at-home mom, and my worth plummeted in the eyes of society, at least (not to my kids.) i have no idea how to make money. becoming financially dependent on someone else, especially someone who loved pointing that out to me, really fucked up my sense of independence & self. for awhile there i was able to do some freelance writing while raising kids, but i couldn’t keep it up. writing “how-to” articles was just sucking the soul right out of me. so i switched to being a student–figuring i would get my degree & then i would be worth something. but now i feel like that is just my swimming in circles. so now what do i do?
sell my car?
sell my art?
turns out–i’m a terrible salesperson. i can’t sell my car. i can’t sell myself. i don’t know the value of anything. i suspect that every potential customer is just rejection waiting to happen. i see rejection everywhere i look. low self-esteem? that’s probably an understatement. weird thing is–i love my car & i love my art & i would totally buy either one of them (in fact, i did buy my car)…but when i look at myself, my art, even my car, through other people’s eyes–i just feel like a joke.
so here i am. weird. dark. & broke.