Contest Results

Time's up. Yeah, I know, you were holding your breath, wondering "What the Hell is that??"


This:



Is from this:

I call this shot "Sandy little piggies". I was randomly shooting from different angles to see if anything interesting came of it...and, while it's not exactly museum quality, I got a giggle from it. Thank you to Someone for being a good sport about all this.

Five folks played along - thank you Hermit Jim, Suzy, Cinner, Rene, and Kit!

No one guessed exactly what it was, but a couple of you came close, so I've decided to award two wins - one to Hermit Jim: "Looks to me like part of someone's body covered with sand...or with a combination of sand and salt water" and one to Suzy: "a leg covered with sand.". I can do that - it's my blog.

Here's what y'all get to do - click on the tags below to peruse the various photographs I've tossed around the blog, pick one you like, and e-mail me your choice and your address so I can ship you a mounted/matted piece, finished size up to 8 x 10. If you don't have a preference, just tell me your favorite color (or, conversely, the color you like least) and let me send you a random piece specially selected piece of art.

Miss Rene: "I looks like the Twinkie I found under the couch! No? Is it a stuffed animal?", Cinner: "I don't know what the hell it is, but I do know you can keep it. Lol.", and Kit: "A sandy, umm. . . a sandy. . . sheesh, let's just say it looks uncomfortable! Though that lower right corner has me confused. . . I give up!" (Kit...this is a family blog!!)(and it was a toe, sweetie)- y'all are funny! Thank you for playing along...I hope you'll join in again in the future!

Choosing Not to Choose is Still a Choice

It's true - choosing to wait, to be patient, to weather the storm and see where the chips fall without pushing, pulling, trying to make things turn out one's own way...it's still choosing.

Not proactive choice, but choice nonetheless. Sometimes all one can do is allow the currents to carry one along to quieter waters.

T had some potential work issues this weekend, brought on by another's foolishness but impacting his ability to do his job and casting doubt as to whether he'd have a job today. Yesterday was distressing, because of it. He is still uncertain, but not because his own actions have shown him to be unworthy of the company...he's worried that the third party is such a selfish shit that he'll take T's job down with him. Spoiled, rich, and utterly unconcerned with the fact that T has a family, is a solid employee, and never says "no" to more work even when his wife threatens to kill him twice daily, thrice on Sundays, the ass-hat who is making trouble cares only for getting his way - or he'll take his ball and everyone else's and go home. I can't go into it more than that...but I will say this - I am not a cursing witch. No, I'm not. But sometimes a body would be wise to fear the blessings I come up with - they stick, and they can be ugly...because I'm all about the Karma, and reminding people that their actions will return to them, all grown up and ready to rock. Also? I really didn't need to be irritated, angered, or made to feel that I can't take any chances right now.

Why?

I'm putting together a show for the gallery...printing, matting, framing, a little of this, a little of that. It's a huge chance, and it requires a bit of an investment on my part, an investment that will stretch us to the limits and could mean a steady diet of Ramen for a while if it fails. If all goes according to plan (or even slightly sideways to the plan)(because really, I don't often plan ahead, knowing the futility of it)(no kidding, I don't usually discuss plans because the so often go awry), the show will open in Feblueberry. I'm sharing the space with an artistic friend or two, which spares me the horror of filling an entire room with my prints and gives me the chance to love their art all over again.

It is unusual for me to put my work out there...unless it's out in the Blue Nowhere, where my fellow Blogopolians are usually quite sweet about it.

But enough is enough - I'm tired of feeling insecure, unsure, and worthless. So there.

Remind me of this bravado in a few days when I'm curled up in the corner wondering what the hell I've gotten myself into. Cheers.

A Compliment

I was paid a high compliment while in Ohio. We were vending next to a couple from Pennsylvania who make and sell stained glass, among other things. We know each other fairly well and get along swimmingly, and we've been setting up beside each other for years.

One day, because I was feeling both bored and insecure, I toted my latest art/craft thing over to them - the notecards I've been making (by hand) from some of my photographs.

They were quite positive in their comments until they came to one particular image - then they stopped and both insisted I should enter it into a contest, that it was as good as or better than many professional shots they'd seen. High praise! He even said he'd love a blow-up of the print, so I got his address and I'm going to enlarge it, mat it, and mail it...hopefully before next June!

Sometimes a body just needs to have that little affirmation that they don't suck.

On the morrow...

...I have two things to do. I will enjoy one of them very much. The other...probably not so much.

First, I am going to leave my son at home with my mum (brave woman, keeping an eye on the evil genius known as Bird) while I go meet some girlfriends and sort through photographs. You see, I am hoping that I can pare them down to a few from the almost 500 I have now, print them, and sell the dadblasted things at a gallery or something. It would be very nice to get something that I did out there and making a few shekels for me. If you're at all creative and without income, you'll understand.

I do so many things...I made up a new term to explain: crafter's ADD...and they all end up costing me money.

I wouldn't mind, if I actually earned some of what I spend, but I don't. The only thing that doesn't cost me a cent is my music, but that's not making me anything either...and it won't unless some major label suddenly decides it hasn't pissed anyone off enough lately and wants to add a pagan band to its stable.

I would like to remain a pure soul, revelling in my art for its own sake, but sadly, I can't. Kids cost money. Hoo, boy, do they cost money. And they keep demanding meals and clothes that fit and shoes and stuff. There's no money to be made in crochet or quilting...those are labors of love, truly. Beadwork, much the same. I'd try to make a buck at writing, but...we'll get to that in a minute. So it's photographs, if I can manage it. My gals are sweet enough to give me a hand, and I did spend a big chunk of yesterday sorting through the files and eliminating a few...now I'm down to 225 potential prints. I also named them.

That's what I'm looking forward to, tomorrow...having some time as a grown-up with other grown-ups, working on a creative endeavor. If I'm not a complete time hog, we'll also get into polymer clay creativity, too...and one of these ladies is insanely talented with that stuff, so it's always fun to get into.

The second thing I have to do...ugh. I really need to feel rejected try and publish something. The only story that is remotely finished and ready to be pimped marketed is a little children's thing I wrote when Bird was but a wee babe. I wrote it for him...he likes when I tell him made-up stories, and this one I managed to remember and write down the next day. I won't go into details, but it's moderately cute and possibly interesting to someone other than myself and my demon spawn delightful little angel boy. So I thought maybe I could get a toe into the door of the publishing world by sending this story out there and seeing what happens. This means I have to either fling manuscripts blindly at publishers and hope I hit something, or get an agent. I am opting for door number two, because I fear it less. Yeah, that's a terrific reason to make a choice, isn't it?

I need to get cracking on a query letter. That's a kind of begging letter wherein one pleads their saleability to a complete stranger and asks said stranger to "Please, please, consent to do the pimping marketing of my manuscript; isn't it a terrific story and don't you just know you'll make a million on it???" Yeah, right. I couldn't sell gold to Scrooge McDuck on my best day and I'm supposed to write a letter that will convince someone they want to read my twiddly little kid's story? I feel ill. It doesn't help that there are many, many terrific resources on the web about finding, capturing, and taming an agent...but not for children's stuff. And there are many, many talented authors trying to get into this soon-to-be-outdated racket before books are dinosaurs and storytellers are medicated into submission. Also, I don't write kid's things for the most part. I do, however, finish them, which cannot be said for my more grown-up dreck. Why would I do this to myself? Because I am a masochist? I have no idea. Perhaps I'm more deluded than my previous shrink (Hi, Dr. Stuart!) and I realized. I don't know. But I said I was going to try, and that means sucking up my fear and offering myself up to strangers...and being rejected by them, by many of them, until I run out of options or someone thinks they can deal with my crazy special charming and talented self.

There are not enough words to convey the horror I feel about this activity...but let me try: I would rather drink bleach laced with razor blades with a strychnine chaser while simultaneously burning my hair and inflicting thousands of paper cuts on my person while being showered from the neck down with a combination of lemon juice and hydraulic acid. Or spend ten minutes with my one remaining grandmother, Isabelle. OK, maybe not that. Really, that's not hyperbolic enough, but I'm tired and off my "A" game. I. Have. To. Write. Query. Letters! Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeek!

If I'm lucky, I'll get hit by a beer wagon on the way home and be spared the need by the resulting lawsuit which will set me up for life. That's worth paralyzing pain and suffering, isn't it?