I’ve got pictures of the Santiago fire — well, the smokey skies surrounding it — that I snapped, fully intending to share here, but I haven’t mustered the time/energy/willpower to edit and upload them. It was such an intense few days, even as removed from the center of the disaster as I am, that I really just want to leave the experience behind me. Plus, really, my pictures aren’t all that great (I’ll blame it all on my camera, yes I will), so now that we’ve passed the crisis point I don’t know if it’s worth all the trouble. You’ll find much better pictures just about any place in the media and on the net.

Instead, I decided I’d share with you a new drawing. This blog has been rather art-starved in recent months, because I really just haven’t had time to do much, aside from a few pages in my art journal, which I may share at some point, if I ever get organized enough to scan or photograph them.

So, this weekend, I couldn’t resist the urge to produce something visual any longer, and I squeezed out an hour or so while the girls were busy playing Wii with their friends. I opted for the simplest media available (meaning: smallest mess to clean up) which was sketching with a plain ol’ #2 pencil. I don’t take myself for any kind of great figure artist, but I am proud of the progress I’m making, and that I’m not copying anything (though I’m thinking of trying that, to get a better idea of proper proportions, etc.).

This is Robin, the main character in the on-going WIP tentatively titled The False Queen.

No, she’s not quite right, but it helps immensely to have even a not-quite-right visualization of the character in front of me as I try to figure out her story (which has not progressed enough lately, unfortunately). I’m going to try sketching her again sometime soon. Eventually. One of these days.

And, oh — I’m incredibly proud of myself for posting this here, just so you know. It’s one thing to tuck it away in my DeviantArt scraps gallery, where hardly anyone will ever see it. But to through it up here, where anyone who’s ever heard of me can come and see it — well, that’s brave, isn’t it? Just think of it as another step in my on-going campaign to prove that even bad art is good!

I took Lucy and Anna to breakfast at McDonald’s this morning — and it was absolutely not because the only breakfast foods we had in the house were Cocoa Puffs and frozen mini pancakes. It was fun to sit down with them and talk for a while, instead of the craziness that usually surrounds mornings in our house. Today’s conversation is worth preserving for eternity.

Lucy: I love cinnamon melts!
Me: [teasingly] Then why don’t you marry them?
Lucy: Maybe I will. But I don’t think they’ll last long enough.
[various estimations of how far the wedding ceremony will get before she devours her "groom."]
Anna: I think you should walk down the the aisle to this music. [hums the Top Gun theme music*]
Lucy: I think Anna should get married to this music. [hums the Pirates of the Carribean theme music**]
Me: Oh, no Anna should walk down the aisle to the Imperial March.*** You know, there was a time when I seriously wanted to get married to that music.
Lucy: Really? [hums a few bars] You’d have to wear a black dress. And a Darth Vader Mask.
Me: Well, the groom could be Darth Vader. The bride can wear Princess Leia’s dress.
Lucy: Oh, that would work.
Anna: Yeah, and then Princess Leia would marry her father! [she likes this idea...at 6, she's still very attached to her parents; she'd marry me if she thought it was possible]
Me: Um, that would be a little weird.
Lucy: Oh, you know how the bride’s father usually walks her down the aisle…
Me: There you go! That’ll work. Of course, Han Solo will be the groom. And Luke Skywalker can be the best man.
Lucy: Or Chewie.
Me: Both.
Lucy: Half Luke and half Chewbacca?
Me: Well, usually a bride and goom have more than one attendant.
Lucy: Oh, okay.
Me: R2D2 can be the flower girl.
Lucy: And C3P0 can be the ring bearer.
Me: Oh, no. Frodo is the ring bearer.
Lucy: [perplexed] Frodo? From The Lord of the Rings?
Me: Yeah. You know. The ring bearer
Lucy: [much laughter] It would be funny if instead of carring the Ring on a chain, Frodo had carried it on a little pillow to Mordor. [demonstrates holding up the pillow]
Me: That would be pretty awkward, wouldn’t it?
Lucy: Walking all over Middle Earth with this ring on a pillow… [reconsiders] It sounds like something Dora the Explorer would do.
Anna: Hey! I like Dora!
Me: Sorry, I didn’t mean to spit food at you.

Nearly two hours have passed, and I’m still giggling about this conversation, because the idea of a Dora the Explorer version of LOTR is just too plausible. Veggie Tales did it, after alll, so why not Dora? Boots the Monkey as Samwise, of course. Swiper the fox as the Nazgul King, trying to swipe the ring at every opportunity. Map as Gandalf (or maybe Gollum), telling them which way to go (”Moria. Swamps. Fiery Mountain. Say it with me: Moria. Swamps. Fiery Mountain. Moria. Swamps. Fiery Mountain!”) I could go on, but I’ll spare you (and myself). I’m already too tempted to try and compose the final “We did it” song, and I’ve got work to do.

I love my kids though, and glad we seem to have brought them up with the right sense of humor!

*One of the song Lucy’s been practicing for the violin.
**Another of the songs Lucy’s been practicing.
***Anna’s favorite piece of movie music (excluding anything from High School Musical); I try not to be paranoid about this.

I heard once that the Los Angeles Basin was called “The Valley of Smoke” because of the way the mountains trapped the smoke coming from simple cooking fires, creating a perpetual haze in the air, long before autos and factories filled the skies with more harmful pollutants. Of course I can’t find any evidence for this online, so you’ll just have to take my word for it that it’s something I heard someone else say.

When I was a child, the local news regularly reported on the smog levels in the atmosphere, and on days of particular intensity (”smog alerts”) we were kept indoors at recess, and if we were allowed to run and play, the bad air would burn the lungs and sting the eyes. I can still remember how it felt, the wheezy, toxic congestion, not being able to manage more than shallow breaths. Fortunately, conditions here have improved drastically since then (apparently due in part to the 1984 Olympics) and while the sky on the horizon is still occasionally smuged with greyish yellow, it doesn’t overwhelm us anymore.

Unless, of course, there are fires.

I don’t suppose I need to tell what’s going on here in Southern California, because if you’re reading stuff online you’re probably pretty well informed about current events. Fortunately, we’re not in danger of any losses, and the closest person at risk that I know (so far) is the sister-in-law of someone I work with. I’m thankful for that, as much as I sorrow for all those who have lost or are in danger of losing homes and business and so much more.

It is a very intense time. While my neighborhood is untouched by fire, the high winds have ravaged the area, leaving broken limbs and fallen trees all over the place. The high temperatures (in the 90s) and the smoke-filled skies contribute to a general miasma of unease, one that is only intesified by the media-frenzy following the spread of the fires. You can’t not listen to the radio or turn on the tv without seeing reports of further damage done by the flames, and the hundreds of thousands of people forced to flee their homes. Mostly, though, it’s because you can’t breathe right that you know the world is amiss.

At work, the sky overhead is surprisingly clear, despite the fact that our offices are only a few miles to the west of where the Santiago fire still burns nearly out of control. The wind is pushing most of the smoke northward, a looming cloud I’ll have to pass through on my way home in just a little bit. White flecks of ash drift down, swirling and sporadic. The sun is setting now, and the light has taken on a golden hue that is eerily beautiful.

What I wouldn’t give to trade that gold for the leaden grey of storm clouds and a few hours of steady, soaking rain.

I snapped this out the car window on our trip to Idylwild, back in August. The road passes through a valley of dairy farms that is…pungent, to say the least. But I love the photo.

I heard a truly horrible story today.

At lunch, I went to mail a package to my sister, who has been going through some stuff and needs, I think, a little bump to regain her artistic center. In a fit of Mailartitis, I had decorated the package (a large, yellow padded envelope) with simple marker-drawn swirls. It wasn’t anything especially elaborate, but it seemed to really impress the officer of the US Postal Service, standing behind his counter. I tried to downplay my Act of Self Expression and brushed it off as “nothing much…about the only thing I am cabable of drawing.”

“It’s more than I could do,” said the postman, as he carefully placed my envelope on the scale.

Yay! An opportunity to share my newfound philosophy of life! “You’d be surprised what you can do if you just give yourself a chance.”

The man started to protest, but then he had to give in to the unassailable truth of my argument. “You know, you may be right. I had a bad art experience in high school…”

He then went on to tell me about his high school art teacher who derided his abilities in front of the whole class. More than that, the teacher sent him to sit outside the classroom, drawing and redrawing a tree until he got it “right.” Can you imagine? What’s worse, when his mother called to complain, the criticism got worse; now when the artwork of this postman-to-be was not up to the standards of this so-called “teacher”, he was given detention!

I stared at him in disbelief. “No wonder you think you can’t draw!” My immediate perscription was to go out and get a pad of paper and some pencils and just do it. I avoided lecturing him about how art is more about process than product, but I did commisserate with him about the lasting effect a horrible teacher like that can have on a developing artist. I think he might, just might — at least I hope he will — actually go out and get himself some art supplies and try something that he hasn’t tried for, oh, 20 years or so, something that he used to enjoy before a small, crabby, dictitorial mind robbed him of his confidence and joy.

I’ll never know what happens, but I’d like to think I changed someone’s life for the better, even in the smallest of ways. Of course, if his life does change, then really he’s the one responsible — I just opened a door, he’s the one who’s got to go through.

I’m happy being a door-opener, though; it’s one of the reasons I love my job so much, because I have the opportunity to reach out to people and show them how creativity and artistic expression (whether it’s drawing or painting or photography or writing or blogging or anything) can transform you, bring you more deeply in touch with who you are and what you want from life. Every one of our publications encourage our readers to “try this yourself.” There’s no magic or mystery about artwork; you don’t need special talents or education — you just DO it, and you don’t have to have a career as an artist to enjoy the process of making art.

Surrounded as I am by this sensibility, I was still energized by today’s encounter, the direct and immediate response to the suggestion that, “yes, you can make art too.” I’d like to find more ways to encourage people to try something artistic, like carrying around mini-notebooks and pencil sets to hand to people randomly. It surprises me that I’d even think about such an idea, because it’s not really practical, and I’m not generally the sort of person who wants to impose my way of thinking on others. But there you go…that’s art, changing things.

Have you ever had a creative door slammed in your face by a teacher or some other authority? How’d you deal with it? Have you ever been a door-opener for someone else, helped them to try creative things they wouldn’t have otherwise? What would you think if some random woman approached you on the street with a pencil and paper and encouraged you to try drawing a flower today?

I’m still getting used to working full days, and last week was particularly bad as I was a little under the weather and traffic seemed to get worse and worse each day. I’m gone from home from 7:45 a.m. till 6:45 p.m. most days, and by the time the kids are in bed, I’m pretty whiped. Any extra minutes added to my already horrid commute just make for additional exhaustion. My job makes it worth it, but I hope I don’t have many more weeks like the last, because I’ll neve have time or energy for any extra activities.

Like, you know, blogging.

I figured I could make up for some of my negligence here by posting some of the links that I’ve been collecting for a while, intending to share here. Only I’ve discovered that most of them really weren’t all that interesting anymore, so I’ve only got a few. Enjoy.

A Peter S. Beagle interview, where he talks about the sequel to The Last Unicorn and the possibility of an MMORPG set in his Innkeeper’s World. *Historical footnote: I once signed a petition to keep Borders out of Davis, CA, largely because Mr. Beagle had signed on the top line, and I figured it was the only way he and I would ever be mentioned on the same page. *Footnote to the historical footnote: We moved from Davis before the Borders went in, so I don’t know if all the wonderful independent bookstores survived or not.

Part of Locus Magazine’s interview with Mr. Beagle, and then one with Guy Gavriel Kay.

Some advice to writers from Kurt Vonnegut. Common sense stuff, really, but well put and easy to digest.

A couple of different posts on the popularity of fantasy versus sciene fiction. Seems to be a hot topic.

FYI, I’m not participating in NaNoWriMo this year, and upon consideration I’ve decided to abstain from Sweating with Sven (a longer, leaner challenge than NaNo). I know how much writing I have to do in the next few months, and I don’t think being part of a community is going to change my ability or inability to reach my self-set goals. The drive to write (and finish what I’m writing) is coming from a much deeper place then externally defined daily word counts and cheerleading groups. And I just don’t want the additional responsibility of having to report and cheer on everyone else, which is part of the whole social contract of such a community project. Not that I’m discouraging anyone else from doing it; it’s just not the right thing for me, right now. Anyone who is participating has my fondest good wishes for success!

So, I was driving home from work on Monday and I was supposed to be thinking about my novel, the current WIP, but instead this scene with a girl picking over the corpses left on a battlefield popped into my head. I honestly can’t recall what sparked the thought, but it quickly developed into a full-fledged scene that I thought just might make it as a short story, maybe. I got around to writing it down on Wednesday, and I gave it a first polish yesterday so I could show it to my new writing group last night. By that time, a second character had wormed his way into the picture (I should say fourth character, because there are three in the initial scene, but two of them are minor, while this fourth fellow would greatly expand the narrative) and now the story was telling me that it just might be a novel. And very possibly a Ten Queens novel.

It’s tempting, it really is, because the other thing is giving me angst right now as I try to make it do all the things I want it to do, and despair of making mush instead. The other story would be simpler, if only because I haven’t had time to attach too much to it yet. It’s fresh, exciting, as full of potential as a plain white canvas. But am I betraying my previous committment if I divert my efforts to this new tale? What happens when, a month from now, another new idea pops into my head and I want to work on it instead? I only less than 13 months before I have to make good on my self-imposed deadline; I need a whole novel, not 13 first chapters. I’m searching for a compromise, and hope I can figure it out soon.

In the meantime, here’s a snippet from the new thing, working title “The False Queen.” When I have a chance to give the entire piece a final polish I will post it along with the zero and first drafts, to demonstrate the truth of the crappy first draft solution for conquering writing fears.

The following is from a work-in-progress and liable to change. Copyright by me, so don’t go posting it anywhere without my permission, or claiming it for your own.

She sat up with a moan that was as much despair as it was pain. She’d had plenty of knocks to the head before and survived, but if she didn’t have something to bring back to Kel, she wouldn’t eat tonight. Now she had nothing, and she didn’t relish creeping around all these dead bodies in the dark, trying to replace what she had lost.
“Are you all right?”
Robin started at the voice that came out of the darkness. She’d thought everyone left on this part of the field was dead already. Far away, a dim glow of torches marked the presence of someone coming this way, but it would be a while before they got this far.
“I saw her hit you.” A woman’s voice, dry with pain. There were a lot of women among the fallen; they had flocked to the rebels’ cause, and died just as bravely as any of the men. “I’m sorry I couldn’t help you.”
“I wouldn’t waste time being sorry for me if I were you. You’re going to be dead soon.” That was a safe guess. If she didn’t die from whatever wound kept her lying here, so long after the fighting had ended, then the men with the torches would likely kill her when they found her.
“I’m already dead.”
Robin had to thing about that for a moment before deciding it was a figure of speech. She didn’t believe in ghosts, especially on a battlefield surrounded by the corpses of the slain. She couldn’t afford it.
Straining to see in the thin light of the moon, she stood and picked her way towards the voice. It was hard, navigating around the bodies that were shapeless lumps in the darkness, and once she stepped on something she thought might be a hand. She tried not to think about it. She found the injured woman by the sheen of moonlight reflected in her eyes, eyes still damp with all of life’s sorrows. She lay on her back, gazing up at the sky, pinned to the earth by the weight of an armored warrior sprawled across her. His helmet was missing and her hand rested on his head, fingers buried in his hair. An arrow protruded from the man’s neck.
The woman herself looked battered. Her face was bruised, her soldier’s surcoat dark with blood.
“I only wanted to help.” She did not look at Robin as she crouched beside her.
“Help who?”
“Everyone. My people.” She sobbed once, a dry, rasping heave. “I thought I could make things better.”
Robin sucked in her breath. Despite the constant complaints of the Old Magpie and Kel, she was not exactly stupid.
“You’re her, aren’t you? Erise. The Lost Queen.”
“Call me false queen, if queen you must name me, for I have been false to those who loved me. I have lead them to their doom.” She shut her eyes to the moon then, and cried.