I had a very good time indeed at Short Run. I’ll elaborate soon.

Step two: sketch arts based on said cards.

…

Step 11,403: profit.

(This will happen 98 years after I am dead. And Bolands are often long-lived.)

Look! I give you the information in two different forms!

Via the group’s site.

And also via the Facebook, where you can even say if you’re coming so as to make us feel better about ourselves.

I’m probably going to be doing small drawings – the idea is quick art sold inexpensively, and the best way I can do that without feeling like I’m making crap is to work small. So I’ll be doing wee ink and watercolor drawings, along with all the glorious output the rest of the group will be covering the walls with. Come on down! Bring the (well-behaved, funny) kids!

There you go. Go out, find them, speak loudly about how amazingly good they are and how they changed your life. Preferably while pointing and saying my name and website over and over again.

You can view the complete list of where my comics are sold here.

I drew this during class. You can see drawings from the previous two pages through the paper. Normally I’d Level that kind of thing out, but you can see the anemones I started out with that brought me to this particular drawing. I miss drawing in class – drawing at work is fun but not quite as pleasurable for some reason.

Also, my cartoonist group is doing a series of profiles of members. I got to be first.

Other things I am up to lately: contemplating work for anthologies, trying to get through my enormous pile of library books, looking at job prospects, and laughing at people complaining about Seattle summer not being here yet. I’m also getting my first reactions to Furlough two, which are generally encouraging, especially because I’m in that afterglow of finishing where I’m plotting all the ways in which I’ll make issue three even better. And I’m pleased as punch with issue two, so it’s a very nice place to be.

Before I learned to knit, I didn’t get cables and bobbles, and I found overly complicated colorwork to be more distracting than impressive. After knitting for a few years, I realized why these things are attractive to a certain sector of knitters: it keeps things interesting.

Now that I can knit-purl-knit-purl with no problem, slip stitches and twist cables and make lovely seamless hats with robotically perfect ribbed brims, I find myself looking at patterns with an eye for a challenge. I find myself looking at things that might be considered grandma-esque sweater patterns by the average observer. (No link for that one, as I’m not going to be a dink and link even to an anonymous online sweater picture for ridicule. Picture sailboats and ducks and crazy stitches; you know what I mean.)

It was a crazy realization, made somewhere in my interminable knitting of dishcloths with more and more garish colorways. The weirder, the better. Leaves? Bats? Boobs? Owls made of cables? Yarn that goes green-orange-blue-yellow-grey-green? Bring it on. If you just knit basic top-down stockinette sweaters for the rest of your life… well, I don’t think you could, really. I can’t. And it is, of course, enormously satisfying to feel like you’ve tamed one of these deliberately difficult patterns. Fortunately, even sweaters are relatively small mountains to climb.

I went to the Grand Canyon today for the first time with Kimberly, one of my nearest and dearest. We drove through south central, central, and northern Arizona on the way. The terrain varied so much I felt like I drove across three separate planets: saguaro cactus-laden Scottsdale, striped mesa-filled Sedona, and finally the scrubby plains and hills of northern Arizona, so abrasive they look like they’d bring the shine out of anyone if given long enough. It’s the mesas that got to me, and the canyon itself. There were infinite stripes of infinitely subtle colors that have been brought to the surface by the Colorado River and rain and tectonic movement, so many that my meager rods and cones weren’t quite up to the challenge. My circa-2004 digital camera sure as hell wasn’t. I took a few pictures, but mostly I just stared, amazed that my depth perception seemed to stop – I knew I wasn’t taking in true distances after a point.

And suddenly, I understood something. I’ve long wondered why artists would paint what I’ve considered boring-ass landscapes – amateurish (or not) oils trying to capture Southwestern vistas but forever falling far short, usually ending up in the bland, revoltingly neutral realm of motel art. And yes, probably that’s why a lot of it exists: the world has a sad, unquenchable need for inoffensive art. However, I think many artists make these places into their white whales. Most photographs will never capture it; instead, they tilt at their canvases, trying to reproduce it.

The paintings are still, in my opinion, heinous, and will forever remind me of those ORIGINAL ART BLOWOUT SALE WHOA ads I see on TV when I visit my grandma in St. Louis. But I’ll be a little more understanding about them now.

See? Hopeless.

Moira stands against the wall, uncommonly uneasy in her suit. She fiddles with her scarf. “What I say now has to be strictly between us. If I could produce some kind of confidentiality agreement for this, I would, but it’s off the record, and so…”

“Of course, Moira. I’m like my mom – we could’ve worked for the CIA.”

Moira smiles ruefully. “Yes, I know. That’s why I’m telling you this. That, and I’d hate to see you make a mistake when I could prevent it.”

Kate has an odd look on her face; she’s rarely unable to predict things at work. This is one of those times.

Usually, this is what you write when you don’t know how to say what you want to say – what they teach in screenwriting classes, to lay down the bones and then fancy them up with the usual oblique ways the human mind works. It’s just strange to send this kind of barebones, inelegant thing to actual people, ones I respect.

Sketches to come later this week.