I know I've been terrible on keeping to my own schedule (for the art blog) these past two or so weeks, but I'm in the process of doing a Major Life Shift of the sort that you don't really ever see coming and as such, it sneaks up and bites you on the back of the calf with pointy, stalactite-shaped teeth before you even notice it came in the doggy door with your cat.

I should hurry to say that this isn't an Unpleasant Major Life Shift (UMLS -- I mean, it even sounds bad as an acronym, doesn't it? Like the noise you'd make after licking an ice cream cone and finding out it was seafood flavored). Quite the opposite. Probably the exact opposite, actually, although PMLS sounds a lot like an unpleasant time of month and doesn't fit with the spirit of the thing at all. And I will give you the full details on it later. I just can't yet.


The upshot is this, though. I'm going full-time with my writing for the foreseeable future. I'm going to keep sketching and drawing for my own enjoyment, and I'll still be offering workshops and doing works for the gallery that represents me in Richmond. I'm actually looking forward to the experimenting.


And I'll be keeping up the art blog regularly, still posting several times a week -- probably with sketches most of the time, with only the occasional full colored pencil piece. And there will probably be a lot of silly anecdotal posts of the sort I used to do almost every post.


But that's not the real purpose of this post. This is: I was going to close my commission books for the foreseeable future, but I've decided I'm going to take on just two more and then, unless an act of Congress intervenes, I am not taking on any new portrait commissions for the next two years.


So if you've been dying for a Maggie Stiefvater portrait . . . this is your last chance for the next two years. My e-mail for commissions is here and I'm taking only the first two I get (held with a deposit). And then the books close for two years.

(all images this post copyright Maggie Stiefvater)

I realized that I haven't been talking very much about my other life -- my non-writing one -- on this blog, even though, until I got my first contract last September, it was how I made my living. I haven't been doing many finished pieces since then other than portrait commissions, but I have been doing a lot of sketching from life. So here are a couple of my five minute and under sketches from life (why do people have to MOVE so much).

I've got to say I'm kind of getting addicted to it now. There's something really satisfying about having enough practice at this sketching stuff that I can get someone's likeness down in under five minutes. What it could be good for other than, say, making a few bucks at the mall sketching people, I don't know, but I like it!

Feel free to boo me off the stage if the art side of Maggie is boring, or visit my art blog if it's interesting to you.

Also, I meant to ask this before, but those of you that aren't under contract yet, is there anything you'd be interested in hearing me wax poetic about?

Well. I finally enough time to work a bit more on this (this, for the uninitiated, is my bi-monthly study of the artists Kay Nielsen & John Bauer -- search for their names on my art blog searcher to find previous posts on them). I spent part of the afternoon working on putting color into the Bauer sketch I had done last time. I was pretty pleased with the sketch and so I was relatively amazed to find that I made an utter dog's breakfast of colorizing it. Seriously, it looks like a three-year old drew it -- and I have one on hand to prove it (a three year old, not a dog's breakfast). And no, I'm not being modest, it really is awful.

Part of the problem was that I did the sketch on drafting film, which is amazing and greasy and buttery feeling for drawing outlines on -- and very tricky for subtle color.

Anyone who is vaguely artsy, I'm talking about complementary colors (in a not boring way, one would assume) over on my art blog.

I am planning to do an epic post tomorrow on New Year's resolutions and goals, because it's a subject I feel very strongly about, but at the moment I am completely obsessed with wanting to know if men hear better than women, because I noticed today that my husband's ear-holes are larger than mine. So he should hear better, right? Am I right?

Anyway, I'll be back to long and proper posts after the New Year's. Right now I'm rather enjoying my holiday sloth.

I don't consider myself an unfriendly person, but neither am I snuggly, cuddly, approachable or hands-on.


Since I've gone full-time as an artist, two years ago, I have read multiple studies on how hand contact will sell more product, and how a warm hug will often cinch a deal that a handshake wouldn't. Intellectually, I take that all in and think fascinating. Practically, I imagine putting the concept to use and think Cooties.


I just . . . I just don't like this whole hugging of strangers thing. I don't like hugging of friends thing. I hug my dog. I hug my dad. I hug my husband. In three entirely different ways. But otherwise -- hm. I'd rather eat bell peppers, and that's saying a lot.


The problem is, there's no real way to broadcast the fact of my anti-hugness without appearing unfriendly. Well, perhaps there is, but I've lost the knowledge as I've aged. In college I was broadly labeled as "scary" by those who knew me and guys would tell me that they had friends who wanted to ask me out but were too scared too. They would hoot when someone tried to lay a hand on my shoulder or otherwise pop a personal bubble which I prided on being no less than ten feet. On either side of me.


But now I seem to have people hugging me all the time. They can't help it. They mean well. They want to show me how glad they are to see me. They don't realize they're setting off all kinds of personal alarms and making the hairs on the back of my neck stand up like Carrot Top's hair.


I wish I had porcupine spines. Then I wouldn't have to say anything, you know? I'd be automatically repellent. And it would also be great for branding purposes, wouldn't it?


BUYER 1: Where did you find that awesome painting?
BUYER 2: That booth down near the entrance.
BUYER 1: Which one?
BUYER 2: The artist with the spines all over her body.
BUYER 2: I know just who you're thinking of.


Also spines would be great for organizing my life -- I'd never lose another business card. Just stab that sucker onto one of the spines and I'm a walking Rolodex.


Guys, I gotta go. I need to revise my Christmas list. Need me some spines.

Children are evil. Not pure evil, just the diluted stuff. Yesterday, while I was taking Ginger out to do her business in the yard, I felt a disturbance in the force. Sure enough, by the time I'd climbed the stairs to the front door again, I found that my two year old son had turned the lock on the door. I peered in the window at him. He peered back at me. I smiled. He smiled. I asked him to open the door. He declined. My three year old daughter sat on the couch a few feet away and watched TV, completely disinterested in my plight.

It was cold. I was holding a wriggling puppy under my arm. I was stuck on the front step and every neighbor was at work.

I then proceeded to go through the five stages of locked-out grieving.

1. Denial. I wasn't really locked out. There was a window open somewhere. I probably had the ability to the pick the lock with my hair clip if I really put my mind to it. Why couldn't my admittedly criminal tendencies have run towards an aptitude for breaking and entering?

2. Anger. After about ten minutes in the cold, I was getting seriously pissed. I tapped on the glass and yelled,"Victoria, get off that couch! Come here and open the door!" She looked at me curiously, like I were one of those animals at the zoo that hadn't quite realized scratching at the glass got them nowhere. "I'm going to turn off the TV!" I threatened. She gave me a look that clearly said do you think I was born yesterday? You're locked out, you moron. TV's mine!

3. Bargaining. I instead turned my attentions to Will. He was still standing by the door, smiling at me. "Will, do you like ice cream? If you open the door, I'll give you ice cream." "Okay," said Will. He remained by the door, smiling up at me. Apparently, unlike Victoria, he was born yesterday, and really did think I was going to get him ice cream from my post on the opposite side of the door.

4. Depression. Twenty minutes in, I was freezing, had tried thumping on the neighbor's door, and was beginning to feel hungry. I wondered if I could possibly starve to death before my husband got home from his shift, seven hours later. I wondered if the children were going to draw on the walls and watch programs rated PG-13 for content that would make a two year old require therapy. Will had stopped smiling at me next to the door and had instead laid down in the middle of the floor with a car and was smiling at it.

5. Acceptance. I was never getting in the front door. I was locked out, and stages 1-4 were getting me nowhere. I went around to the back door, which is a French door with all the windows that entails, and I knocked.

Peanut begins to bark: there's someone at the door!!!!

Duh.

Will comes running into the kitchen to see who it is. Ah ha! It's Mama again! Boy, she's obsessed with this coming-inside thing!

Through the window, I make intricate gestures indicated how he should unlock the knob. He smiles at me. Then, he begins to lock and unlock the door, back and forth, back and forth. With a careful sense of timing developed from a grade-school experience full of skipping rope, I grab the doorknob on the upswing and push my way inside.

Will got ice cream. Victoria got the TV unplugged.

I am, in general, a big fan of tupperware and ziploc bags and those hot dog bags that have zip things on the side (even though they never zip completely so they leak hot dog juice all over your fridge -- and what the heck is hot dog juice? do I even want to know? -- I appreciate the thought), but there is one product that comes in a resealable bag that I just don't get.

Socks.

Yeah, socks. Have you guys bought any recently? Since it's winter and the Christmas elves steal all my useful clothing in November to give my mom a good reason to give me underwear and socks, I beat them to the punch and bought myself and the kids some new socks. And lo and behold, these lovely new socks have cushioned arch support, padded toes, sporty features, and a resealable bag.

So, what. The socks are going to go bad? Or better yet, you're going to keep storing them in that bag?

Husband: Honey, I need some socks.
Me: I washed a buttload of them, dear.
Husband: Where are they? I can't find them.
Me: They're in the bag we bought them in, stupid.

I dunno. Does it take more energy to make a bag with that resealable zipping thingy? Because if so, it seems to me that sock manufacturers are really missing an opportunity to cut costs. They should save that money and maybe put an extra sock in each bag, because you know you always end up with an odd number of them. Or they should pass on their secret technology to someplace that could really use resealable bags, but don't, like potato chip companies. Someone please tell me why potato chips don't come with zips? Instead, you have to rummage in a drawer for a clip, discover they're all in use for experimental modeling supports in the hobby room, and end up rolling it up and hoping that your family can consume the 27,000 calories contained in the bag before they go stale. Hey. I think I answered my own question.

Still doesn't explain the socks, though.

Okay, folks. You know I had to do it once this season. It's my job, right?

Ho. Ho. Ho. Give your family what they really want. Put art from Maggie Stiefvater under the tree. Etc.

Remember there are two places to get my art:



Do me a favor. Make both our Christmases merry. ;)

Phew, glad that's over with.

I'm getting a little irritated with the progressive attitude of my socks. Recently they've decided that, as socks of the 21st century, they don't need to have "an other half" to feel complete. Who says you need another sock to make your existence complete? My socks are doing just fine on their own. Moreover, each of my socks is unique, like a snowflake. Just when I think I can grab two and force them into unholy matrimony, I notice that Sock A has a yellow band and Sock B has taller ribbing. In the words of Homer, D'oh.

I'm not sure what to do about this. I steal my husband's socks sometimes. His socks don't have the strong individual identities of mine: they're all clones of each other. I can grab any two and be pretty sure they'll be perfect for each other. None of the conflicts inherent in rummaging in my own sock drawer.

ME: Sock, you're going with this sock.
SOCK: I don't date taller socks.
ME: How about this one?
SOCK (witheringly): It's not even the same color as me.
ME: Racist.
SOCK: That's just fashion-sense, stupid. Keep lookin'.

In fact, a lot of my articles of clothing are starting to vanish, especially undergarments. I know it's that time of year. The elves, still operating strongly under orders from parental figures, sneak into people's houses and steal socks and underwear so that you'll be more grateful when you receive new ones as Christmas gifts a few months later.

Don't think I'm not onto you guys.

I'm still psyched about finishing the revisions! Ha! There is nothing sweeter than meeting a deadline on time . . . except for the sweet tea I mentioned a few posts back.

I'd like to chat briefly (very briefly, because my fingers are busted from writing 20,000 words in two days) about the importance of setting personal deadlines.

What's a personal deadline, you ask,with a questioning look in your beady eye? It's a deadline that has absolutely no meaning to anyone but yourself. It might be for something that already has a deadline (like my revisions, which were due in January), or it might be for something open-ended that you've left hanging too long.

Setting these sort of goals for myself helps keep me on track. I reward myself with a CD when I reach one, or I tell myself I can't have something until I do -- like a chance to sit down and read any of the new novels that I bought with my advance money (yes, that's ironic) (or maybe just predictable). And you might say, "but the only person you'd let down is yourself." And yes, that's true. And if that isn't a good enough reason to finish a deadline, there isn't a better reason out there. Because when it comes down to it, you should be working for yourself no matter what your profession.

And the best part of meeting my crazy personal deadlines? I now have three months to play with writing whatever I want to, because I got my work done early. Getting stuff done early means more time for you.

So do me a favor. Look at your procrastination list and make yourself some deadlines tonight, and write the reward for completion on time next to it. And get busy.

My editor knows that I work best with insane deadlines, so he's challenged me to finish the final 20,000 words of my revision (this is all new stuff by now, completely divorced from even my lonely outline and synopsis) by October 2nd. Crazy? Oh yeah. Do-able? Questionable. Am I gonna try? WHHHOOOO YES! I mean, I already know that at least 100 or 200 of the words will be "the" and another couple hundred will be "it." That's 400 taken care of already.

My dog, Peanut, is an interesting mother to her brand new puppies. While she's good in some ways -- like convincing seven puppies to all line up obediently and nurse at the same time on different teats -- in other ways, she's a bit lacking.

First big problem: she's got eight legs. Well, not really, but it seems that way every time she gets back into her whelping box after a walk. She steps over the edge ever so daintily and the next sound you hear is "EEEEEEK!" as she squashes someone's head. This happens every time. She steps on more toes than Imus.

Second big problem: she's not very attentive. Oh, sure she's attentive when she's in the box. She's the picture of attentiveness when the door is closed and she has to stay with them. But if I leave that door open . . . it's party time. She carefully exits the box so they don't notice her leaving, and then wanders around the house poking her nose in corners and aggravating the cat by fluffing him. I'm sure she doesn't think she's being irresponsible. She thinks that she's being the wolf-mother, leaving her cubs for hours at a time, hunting for hot dogs to bring back to her lair.

And finally, she has a problem with standing up whenever we start cooking something new (her whelping box is in the kitchen). She's always been an opportunistic food begger, you know, the dog that stands behind you hoping you'll burn yourself and drop a skillet of food on her head. And so, out of habit, she jumps up when we pick up a pan. And seven little bodies that were attached to her fall to the ground, complaining. She smiles tenderly at them. "Aw, little blighters . . . "

I met up with an old friend from college today - she's been in Europe for a few years, literally - and it was great. Great times, great food (krispy kreme), and we're both much hotter than we were in college, which is always a pleasant revelation to have at a donut shop.

But it didn't leave much time for my day job, so I only got a quick one hour piece done today, with no background. Here 'tis (course you can buy it on ebay if ya want).

So I finally bit the bullet and got a Cafepress page today, so I people can order my art on totes and t-shirts and all kinds of fun stuff. I did this silly cat spoof series earlier this year but hadn't really found a good way to get it onto interesting products, so I'm kinda psyched. I'm gonna load more images later this week.

Anyway, on other news, I wrote 15,000 words on my current WIP this week, which is pretty good considering I only had seven hours to write during. It's on productive weeks like this one that I start thinking about entering that Write a Novel in 3 Days contest that happens every Labor Day. I have to remind myself how much thinking time goes into writing that many words. I contemplate what I'm going to write next all the time - while I'm driving, staring off into space, before I go to bed, while I'm sleeping, and my favorite, in the shower. There's something about the sensory deprivation of a shower stall that helps the whole plotting process. I should try plotting in my closet.

I cross-posted this on my art blog but I thought that I'd post it on my writing blog as well, because the work in progress photos are kinda cool. This is a typical two hour piece for me down in colored pencils and here's the various steps. Cool, huh? This is my day job when I'm not writing.



Step 1-4: I rarely do a preliminary drawing on my actual drawing paper. If I'm confused about the shapes or the values or I need to make sizable changes, I'll do a value sketch in my sketch book, but otherwise, for one of these quickies, I just dive right in.

So I start with the eye, always. I put as much dark value in as I can because I'll want to bring the rest of the values up to that level to match. When I need to "explain" a shape to myself as I work, I tone the paper with a light layer of a midtone to form the edge, rather than drawing it with an unnatural line -- you can see that on the edge of the leopard's face, right?



Step 5-8: I need to start establishing some more shapes here. I use the eye as a flat measurement and measure distances relative to that: i.e., the nose is two eye lengths away from the corner of the eye, the ear is two and half. Again, if I don't "understand" a shape quite yet, I tone the paper lightly where I think it ought to go. I can always adjust a little if I don't like how it turned out. I'm using a lot of greens and yellow-browns at this point.



Step 9-12: This is where it's getting fun. I start pushing the saturation. If I'm using a burnt ochre, I grab magenta or process red to push the colors a bit more. If the area's cool, I lay in blues. I want his face to come forward and his neck to move back, so I use lots of colors on his face and greys and blues on his neck. I never forget that Value is King, so everything has to look right in black and white -- the colors will work themselves out.