Showing posts with label craft. Show all posts
Showing posts with label craft. Show all posts
Wednesday, May 2, 2018
My Essay Is Out! Check It!
My craft talk essay "Fighting Against the Bloat" is out in the Tishman Review 4.2! *Click on image to go on site!*
It is available as a PDF, and on Amazon.com as a hard copy or Kindle e-book!
Saturday, March 2, 2013
I don't understand some people...
I don't remember if it was a writers' conference, a workshop, the Miami Book Fair, some random convention or event I usually attend when I'm bored and/or have some extra cash.
Anyhoo, a gentleman was impressed by the fact I was published and had my own website. He asked what inspired my stories.
I told him I grew up on Greek myth and so, at the time, Tabber the Red (my site), had Greek Mythology* on the Welcome Page. He told me that was surprising, since I'm not Greek.
Huh? What? How did you arrive at that conclusion?
No, I'm far from Greek (I'm 1st Gen Caribbean-American), but what I don't understand is that, as far as I could tell, neither was he.
Yet, I got the impression that had I matched his skin color, this man would never have said such a ridiculous summation to me.
What did being non-Greek have to do with being a lover of storytelling that has lasted through the ages?
~~~
I don't like pigeonholes: in high school art, as a girl, I wasn't suppose to draw superheroes.
Instead, I should be creating the fashion art the majority of girls were drawing (one fashion artist even got ticked off when she saw the outfits I created for my characters, and demanded to know how I could draw such outfits - so, she was jealous at how..creative the outfits on cartoon characters were?).
In junior high, I should be drawing still-life instead of cartoons.
In college art courses, an instructor/professor had the nerve to tell me I was too repressed and restrictive, especially when, after completing his assignments, I turned to sketching my own work during free time.
When I decided to take writing seriously, when it no longer became a passing interest, no longer a hobby, but something I wanted to shape my life, there were folks who told me to stop writing about animals, stop living in science fiction world, stop these childish dreams, and focus on reality, and read Urban fiction (you know, because I AM Black).
And let me also mention the English teacher, who, in my first-year of high school, accused me of plagiarism (don't worry, will explain in another post), and a science teacher from my junior high days, a truly dreadful woman, who later showed up at the college I later attended!
Here I was, working at the college bookstore as a cashier, and she, horror of horrors, was the next in line!
Dreadful Teacher: Oh, it's you, Ms. Welsh. You're here. (Because, she could never call us by our FIRST names, as she was mean enough not to make it personal)
Me: Hello, Ms. (Name deliberately omitted). How are you?
Dreadful Teacher: What're you doing here?
Me: I'm majoring in art.
Dreadful Teacher: Oh. THAT again? I thought you gave that up.
I don't know why I wanted to bite her instead of the normal thought of punching her, I guess that was just the so-called 'Furry' in me, but I grinned wide enough as if I was bearing my teeth in a snarl and wished her a nice day.
~~~
As human beings, we all have prejudices; we all make snap judgements. We're all flawed.Yes, if we know a person's ethnicity, we can hope to better understand him/her, if we know someone's name, it betters our chances of connecting with him/her.
I get it. What I don't understand is, when a person can just outright BLURT OUT his/her snap judgements at you on the summation of skin color? Or gender? And then on THAT flimsy basis, decide what you must like, what must be your hobbies, what must be your life? And when you completely change that illusion or assumption, YOU, not the person who makes the snap judgement, are the brunt of that person's ire or confusion?
I don't want to understand. I just want to draw what I like. I want to write what I like. So far, some people like it, some love it, and some hate it no matter what. We are entitled to our interests. We are entitled to our opinions.
But please, for those who think you can decide everything about a person just by looking at them, maybe you're in the wrong business.
You should probably do fortune-telling. Yet, even palmists study a person carefully before making a prediction.
*For those who visit 'Tabber the Red', I have since changed 'Greek' Mythology to 'World' Mythology because the Greek stories led me to reading other cultures' myths and folklore.
Anyhoo, a gentleman was impressed by the fact I was published and had my own website. He asked what inspired my stories.
I told him I grew up on Greek myth and so, at the time, Tabber the Red (my site), had Greek Mythology* on the Welcome Page. He told me that was surprising, since I'm not Greek.
Huh? What? How did you arrive at that conclusion?
No, I'm far from Greek (I'm 1st Gen Caribbean-American), but what I don't understand is that, as far as I could tell, neither was he.
Yet, I got the impression that had I matched his skin color, this man would never have said such a ridiculous summation to me.
What did being non-Greek have to do with being a lover of storytelling that has lasted through the ages?
~~~
I don't like pigeonholes: in high school art, as a girl, I wasn't suppose to draw superheroes.
Instead, I should be creating the fashion art the majority of girls were drawing (one fashion artist even got ticked off when she saw the outfits I created for my characters, and demanded to know how I could draw such outfits - so, she was jealous at how..creative the outfits on cartoon characters were?).
In junior high, I should be drawing still-life instead of cartoons.
In college art courses, an instructor/professor had the nerve to tell me I was too repressed and restrictive, especially when, after completing his assignments, I turned to sketching my own work during free time.
When I decided to take writing seriously, when it no longer became a passing interest, no longer a hobby, but something I wanted to shape my life, there were folks who told me to stop writing about animals, stop living in science fiction world, stop these childish dreams, and focus on reality, and read Urban fiction (you know, because I AM Black).
And let me also mention the English teacher, who, in my first-year of high school, accused me of plagiarism (don't worry, will explain in another post), and a science teacher from my junior high days, a truly dreadful woman, who later showed up at the college I later attended!
Here I was, working at the college bookstore as a cashier, and she, horror of horrors, was the next in line!
Dreadful Teacher: Oh, it's you, Ms. Welsh. You're here. (Because, she could never call us by our FIRST names, as she was mean enough not to make it personal)
Me: Hello, Ms. (Name deliberately omitted). How are you?
Dreadful Teacher: What're you doing here?
Me: I'm majoring in art.
Dreadful Teacher: Oh. THAT again? I thought you gave that up.
I don't know why I wanted to bite her instead of the normal thought of punching her, I guess that was just the so-called 'Furry' in me, but I grinned wide enough as if I was bearing my teeth in a snarl and wished her a nice day.
~~~
As human beings, we all have prejudices; we all make snap judgements. We're all flawed.Yes, if we know a person's ethnicity, we can hope to better understand him/her, if we know someone's name, it betters our chances of connecting with him/her.
I get it. What I don't understand is, when a person can just outright BLURT OUT his/her snap judgements at you on the summation of skin color? Or gender? And then on THAT flimsy basis, decide what you must like, what must be your hobbies, what must be your life? And when you completely change that illusion or assumption, YOU, not the person who makes the snap judgement, are the brunt of that person's ire or confusion?
I don't want to understand. I just want to draw what I like. I want to write what I like. So far, some people like it, some love it, and some hate it no matter what. We are entitled to our interests. We are entitled to our opinions.
But please, for those who think you can decide everything about a person just by looking at them, maybe you're in the wrong business.
You should probably do fortune-telling. Yet, even palmists study a person carefully before making a prediction.
*For those who visit 'Tabber the Red', I have since changed 'Greek' Mythology to 'World' Mythology because the Greek stories led me to reading other cultures' myths and folklore.
Saturday, October 27, 2012
The Art of Plugging Away - A side note
I was told, in early writing exercises, that my voice was authentic.
Or, when I write my male gangsters, and how other male protagonists behave, there have been, so far, little to no complaints from the men who read my fiction.
Rarely have I changed a character's race, though the ethnicity proved trickier to determine. As the story progressed, the ethnicity would become resolved.
Or, when I write my male gangsters, and how other male protagonists behave, there have been, so far, little to no complaints from the men who read my fiction.
Rarely have I changed a character's race, though the ethnicity proved trickier to determine. As the story progressed, the ethnicity would become resolved.
Friday, April 6, 2012
"Children Isabella & Giovanni ages 8 and 9"
Sometimes, you get an image so perfect, so right, that you really don't want to redo it to final form. This rough sketch is one of them.
I'm not saying that, as an artist, I don't think it needs improvement or refinement. It most certainly does. What I mean is the spirit of the draft, how both characters' personalities shine through, at least, to me.
Isabella and Giovanni grow up together. As adolescents, they become lovers. They break up, each going their separate ways. She marries respectively as he grows into a life of crime. In spite of this, the childhood sweethearts still keep in touch on occasion.
Even in this picture, circa 1914, as they walk side-by-side, they appear to hold hands.
There are several periods and/or decades that are my personal favorites. While I often mention the 1940s being my earliest love, I was especially fond of the 1880s - 1900s, what would be quaintly named 'Turn-of-the-century', or the more aptly historical 'Industrial Age'. I especially like drawing Isabella's pinafore (I believe that's the 'apron' or 'smock' that went over most girl's dresses at the time). They wore these during school and house/yard work, and almost never in church or special occasions such as house parties.
Notice the laced up boots both genders wore. I like drawing these. Also, I have Giovanni in knickerbockers.
My dad once mentioned he wore these as a boy!
I LOVE History.
I'm not saying that, as an artist, I don't think it needs improvement or refinement. It most certainly does. What I mean is the spirit of the draft, how both characters' personalities shine through, at least, to me.
Isabella and Giovanni grow up together. As adolescents, they become lovers. They break up, each going their separate ways. She marries respectively as he grows into a life of crime. In spite of this, the childhood sweethearts still keep in touch on occasion.
Even in this picture, circa 1914, as they walk side-by-side, they appear to hold hands.
There are several periods and/or decades that are my personal favorites. While I often mention the 1940s being my earliest love, I was especially fond of the 1880s - 1900s, what would be quaintly named 'Turn-of-the-century', or the more aptly historical 'Industrial Age'. I especially like drawing Isabella's pinafore (I believe that's the 'apron' or 'smock' that went over most girl's dresses at the time). They wore these during school and house/yard work, and almost never in church or special occasions such as house parties.
Notice the laced up boots both genders wore. I like drawing these. Also, I have Giovanni in knickerbockers.
My dad once mentioned he wore these as a boy!
I LOVE History.
Wednesday, February 29, 2012
The Thrill of the Chase...
Remember the first time you had to stand up in class and recite something or read an essay you wrote or whatnot? You don't remember?
Well, good, because I remember my first time, and thinking about it traumatizes me now.
1982. Bronx, NY, Parkway Elementary School, Kindergarten.
We had to do that repulsive Show-N-Tell and I had a whole spiel ready. But when it came my turn, I froze. Absolutely and irrevocably frozen.
My teacher yelled at me. At 5, I couldn't understand WHY she was so angry with me. So I wouldn't dance like a puppet? Like the other kids?
I cried and stewed in a corner for the rest of class.
Fast forward to junior college, and I'm in the first course in Creative Writing.
I'm about 18-19 years old.
In the past, the only class coursework involving ANY of my stories has been relegated to that short span for which they devote a minute time to the ART OF FICTION (said like a bass-voice narrator speaking through a bullhorn).
Now we are in a circle, our desks to form a ring, and each session, the professor chooses who's to read the next story. She comes to me. It's my turn. My limbs are shaking. I am becoming frozen. My chin trembles so that I forget how to form words. Most every one's gaze is on me.
I can't feel the paper, and I clench it tightly. It's pastel yellow, printer paper that was once used on a dot matrix ('member those?) printer, and later, through an inkjet.
I begin to read.
I'm the only student that writes about gangster dogs in suits and fedoras.
I have a classmate who writes from the perspective of flowers in a meadow, but one can guess I am pretty much the oddball in the class.
My professor, the only one impressed by what she saw as natural talent and skill.
I continue to read.
I finished the scene when my protagonist chases a rival into a New York subway, the rival slips off the platform and into the tracks the same time a train arrives, killing him.
My protagonist looks at his watch and says, "Hm..Well what do ya know? It's right on time!"
I'm finished.
I look up. Everyone watches me and I mean EVERYONE.
I swallow as I turn to my professor. My mouth is dry but she nods, her confidence in me confirmed.
A classmate, "Whoa."
I hear, "That was the most incredible thing I've ever heard!"
"I was literally shaking."
"I'll never look at dogs the same way again."
More and more words of praise and admiration.
There's already a hater, who never liked my stuff and often criticized my work before I would even finish. She looked away. I don't care.
The words of encouragement are enough, and thank God, because this was my last stop, pun definitely intended, before I decided I may give up on writing.
From that class, from that experience and many afterwards, I decided to pursue writing, no matter how long it took me.
A classmate explained that as I read the piece, my speech became faster and faster, thereby intensifying the action but also making it difficult for some to understand me.
However, the class heard what they needed to hear to give me feedback, and I walked on air the rest of that day.
Well, good, because I remember my first time, and thinking about it traumatizes me now.
1982. Bronx, NY, Parkway Elementary School, Kindergarten.
We had to do that repulsive Show-N-Tell and I had a whole spiel ready. But when it came my turn, I froze. Absolutely and irrevocably frozen.
My teacher yelled at me. At 5, I couldn't understand WHY she was so angry with me. So I wouldn't dance like a puppet? Like the other kids?
I cried and stewed in a corner for the rest of class.
Fast forward to junior college, and I'm in the first course in Creative Writing.
I'm about 18-19 years old.
In the past, the only class coursework involving ANY of my stories has been relegated to that short span for which they devote a minute time to the ART OF FICTION (said like a bass-voice narrator speaking through a bullhorn).
Now we are in a circle, our desks to form a ring, and each session, the professor chooses who's to read the next story. She comes to me. It's my turn. My limbs are shaking. I am becoming frozen. My chin trembles so that I forget how to form words. Most every one's gaze is on me.
I can't feel the paper, and I clench it tightly. It's pastel yellow, printer paper that was once used on a dot matrix ('member those?) printer, and later, through an inkjet.
I begin to read.
I'm the only student that writes about gangster dogs in suits and fedoras.
I have a classmate who writes from the perspective of flowers in a meadow, but one can guess I am pretty much the oddball in the class.
My professor, the only one impressed by what she saw as natural talent and skill.
I continue to read.
I finished the scene when my protagonist chases a rival into a New York subway, the rival slips off the platform and into the tracks the same time a train arrives, killing him.
My protagonist looks at his watch and says, "Hm..Well what do ya know? It's right on time!"
I'm finished.
I look up. Everyone watches me and I mean EVERYONE.
I swallow as I turn to my professor. My mouth is dry but she nods, her confidence in me confirmed.
A classmate, "Whoa."
I hear, "That was the most incredible thing I've ever heard!"
"I was literally shaking."
"I'll never look at dogs the same way again."
More and more words of praise and admiration.
There's already a hater, who never liked my stuff and often criticized my work before I would even finish. She looked away. I don't care.
The words of encouragement are enough, and thank God, because this was my last stop, pun definitely intended, before I decided I may give up on writing.
From that class, from that experience and many afterwards, I decided to pursue writing, no matter how long it took me.
A classmate explained that as I read the piece, my speech became faster and faster, thereby intensifying the action but also making it difficult for some to understand me.
However, the class heard what they needed to hear to give me feedback, and I walked on air the rest of that day.
Monday, January 2, 2012
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