To the Artifice
Tying to get ahead on my comic for the days I'll be losing to Comic-Con, I spent a lot of time inking and colouring yesterday. The Howard Stern Show and Nick and Artie are both on vacation, so I listened to audio books--Seamus Heaney reading his translation of Beowulf, Nicol Williamson reading The Hobbit, and the first hour or so of The Brothers Karamazov read by someone with a slightly distracting, perpetually snide tone. So that's over nine hours of listening to audio books, during which I inked and coloured all the while and I still think I'm going to need to be playing catch up next week.
There's this "Comic Creator Connexion" service Comic-Con provides where writers can meet up with artists. Registration capacity has been reached for writers but not for artists. I doubt there are many other pre-registered events at the Con for which capacity hasn't been reached. This disparity does not in the least surprise me--it's a lot easier to say you're a writer even if you're not than it is to say you're an artist. There are people who write twenty five words a year of creative writing who are comfortable calling themselves writers--after all, who would check? People have a hard enough time reading renowned writing nowadays. But there's too much easy proof in the pudding with art--it takes more time to make, and it doesn't take long to form an impression of the results.
Anyway, to-night's Preview Night, the Con begins. I need to get my stuff together. I probably won't be posting much until Monday. 出かけます。
Twitter Sonnet #404
Armed astronauts acclimate to banjos.
Dormitory detours displace Degas.
Lamps liquidate the lesser G.I. Joes.
Legal language scarred the wooden Sega.
Gatling gourmet gives new life to noodles.
Sorrow sorts the bathtubs from the vista.
Long kite tackle takes bass over hurdles.
Cakey realm shadows display Batista.
Tangerine wizards stomp the swallowed tick.
Credulous legends pled for doubled tale.
Pulverised pearls displaced the lonely brick.
Tarantula kings powder thorax pale.
Martian nurses negotiate shorn wool.
Ink indicates the calamitous fool.
There's this "Comic Creator Connexion" service Comic-Con provides where writers can meet up with artists. Registration capacity has been reached for writers but not for artists. I doubt there are many other pre-registered events at the Con for which capacity hasn't been reached. This disparity does not in the least surprise me--it's a lot easier to say you're a writer even if you're not than it is to say you're an artist. There are people who write twenty five words a year of creative writing who are comfortable calling themselves writers--after all, who would check? People have a hard enough time reading renowned writing nowadays. But there's too much easy proof in the pudding with art--it takes more time to make, and it doesn't take long to form an impression of the results.
Anyway, to-night's Preview Night, the Con begins. I need to get my stuff together. I probably won't be posting much until Monday. 出かけます。
Twitter Sonnet #404
Armed astronauts acclimate to banjos.
Dormitory detours displace Degas.
Lamps liquidate the lesser G.I. Joes.
Legal language scarred the wooden Sega.
Gatling gourmet gives new life to noodles.
Sorrow sorts the bathtubs from the vista.
Long kite tackle takes bass over hurdles.
Cakey realm shadows display Batista.
Tangerine wizards stomp the swallowed tick.
Credulous legends pled for doubled tale.
Pulverised pearls displaced the lonely brick.
Tarantula kings powder thorax pale.
Martian nurses negotiate shorn wool.
Ink indicates the calamitous fool.