Anna's Artists Chat Thread

[RoostersAreAwesome]

The garbage computer paper has a fold in it because I left it on the floor, so that’s why there’s a weird shadow.View attachment 2455032

You’re good at drawing angry birds

 

[Amer]

You’re good at drawing angry birds

I enjoy drawing angry birds. But it’s missing something.

There.

 

[Amer]

Oh, btw, here’s something I made in 5th grade. I really thought this was the epitome of literature. I did a whole graphic novel like this.

fun fact, I used different shades of black for different canaries because I was upset by that their color interfered with my creativity. I know, instead of adapting my made-up sub-species I adapted to it. Very smart of me.
Now he looks like this (well, not in my cartoon style tho):

But now I have adapted. Now I allow myself very dark grey along with the black.

 

[lilmillefleur]

I just watched the mandalorian season finale and without spoiling anything for anyone who watches it

I am 100000000000% dead holy crap

 

[lilmillefleur]

Wrote chapter 1 of my other story too. I had a ton of time on my hands today as I was off the internet trying to avoid spoilers AND my dad was using the computer so I couldn't draw

Spoiler: Tempest chapter 1 draft

Tap tap tap. “Hello?” Sam rocked back and forth ever so slightly on her feet, her long black hair shifting over her gray backpack as she moved. Her father had asked for the plate of sugar cookies in her hands to be delivered to the new neighbors who had moved into the little white house down the street. Sam was currently standing on the front porch of the house, waiting for the door to open. It was an almost refreshing looking house, she noted, as there was a big summery wreath hanging from the door. It was bright and full of white flowers and vivid green leaves.
Several minutes passed. The wind blew gently, tickling the wind chimes that had been hung beside a window, and lifting up the wonderful smell of a garden from the backyard. The cookies grew cold. Still no one answered the door. Sam checked the side of the house for the third time. Yes, their car was still there. She knew it was the only car the family had, because she had never seen any other. But a part of her began to doubt again. There has to be another car! There has to be some explanation! She rang the doorbell again. “Hello!”
A light flickered on upstairs and Sam nearly jumped out of her skin. Now she knew someone was home. She waited another minute. Rang the doorbell again. What could they be doing to not answer the doorbell for minutes? It must be something very important, she thought to herself.
Finally, Sam made up her mind. She placed the cookies on the welcome mat and headed back down the stone steps. As she turned back to get one final look at the little house, she noticed something in the window. It was a piece of paper taped to the glass, scribbled in ink with the words 'Come Back Tomorrow.' Sam climbed the steps again, took the cookies back with her, and left.
Sam’s house, admittedly, wasn’t quite as cute as the neighbors’. But it wasn’t anything to be ashamed of, since many of the houses on the street looked just like hers. It was a plain one-story house. You could even call it ugly looking, with its peeling gray shingles and odd brick siding and long, squat shape. But it was good enough for Sam. She didn’t mind the exterior of the house, as long as she could make her room look how she wanted it to. It was private, there was no shame in whatever she chose to do to it. Her parents probably didn’t even know what her closet looked like. She’d made a little reading nook inside, and when she was little she had smuggled candy and coins and mother’s best jewelry into the closet as well.
Now Sam was slumped in her off-white armchair, counting the ticking of the bedroom’s clock. She felt useless. There was no homework to do, and she had cleaned the house earlier that day. None of the usual activities seemed enjoyable. Her father wasn’t home. The idea of an outing with her mother only made her anxious. All she had to look forward to now was visiting the neighbors again.
Sam was on that porch again the following morning, with the seran-wrapped paper plate of cookies once again in her hands. Tap tap tap. This time there was an immediate response from inside the house. A woman’s voice. It sounded gentle yet deep, with a kind of sad sweetness to it. Someone else may have described it as dripping like honey.
“Come in, sweetheart.”
Sam grabbed the doorknob and it twisted under her hand. They left the door unlocked for me, she concluded naturally. She pushed it open, albeit cautiously, and tiptoed inside. She didn’t see anyone immediately, but she could see that the interior of the house was just as fresh and bright as the exterior was. The walls were a crisp white all around, and the kitchen windows off to the left were full of potted herbs and flowers and streaming sunlight. A few plates of half-eaten toast were left on the rustic wooden countertop. There were crayon drawings and magnets on the fridge. She has children, Sam thought. I wonder if there are any who are my age.
Now Sam could hear the woman shuffling around upstairs. She left the cookies on the table and continued a slow walk through the house. “I brought cookies.”
The shuffling stopped for a moment, then the woman spoke again and began to descend the staircase. “Sugar cookies. I know. Thank you.”
She had the same kind of freshness as the rest of her house: she was wearing a green checked button-down shirt and a stained white apron. She had wavy auburn hair that was tied behind her neck in a loose ponytail, and her face was spotted with freckles. Unlike her bright appearance, however, her eyes themselves looked exhausted. They widened for just a moment when she saw Sam, as if there was something about her that was startling. Sam tried to brush aside the thought that this woman was judging her over some small thing, but her hands were up in her black hair now, twirling it around her fingers.
“I’m glad you like them,” Sam stammered nervously. She felt herself turn to leave.
“No,” the woman cut in. And then, “--I’m sorry. Don’t leave yet. I have something to show you.”
Sam was growing more anxious with every passing second, but she smiled calmly as not to upset her new neighbor.
“Do you like...flowers?” The woman asked. Sam couldn’t comprehend the woman’s emotions, nor her intent. She couldn’t place her trust in the woman just yet, not until she opened up more.
“Yeah.”
The woman crossed through her living room and took down a vase of white flowers from the fireplace mantle. “They’re lilacs,” she said. “My favorite flowers. They smell beautiful, don’t they?”
“They do,” Sam whispered, sucking in a deep breath, her nose filling with the wonderfully sweet smell.
“Tell me your name,” the woman pressed suddenly.
“Sam,” said Sam.
“Sam,” said the woman. “Do you want to know a secret?”
Sam didn’t answer. Her mind was churning.
“These are magic flowers, Sam.” The woman had placed a gentle hand on Sam’s shoulder now. She felt her legs begin to buckle from under her. The woman caught her, held her. The last thing Sam could remember was that honey-sweet voice whispering in her ear. “Do you believe in magic, Sam? Do you believe a miracle can happen?”

 

[Amer]

Wrote chapter 1 of my other story too. I had a ton of time on my hands today as I was off the internet trying to avoid spoilers AND my dad was using the computer so I couldn't draw

Spoiler: Tempest chapter 1 draft

Tap tap tap. “Hello?” Sam rocked back and forth ever so slightly on her feet, her long black hair shifting over her gray backpack as she moved. Her father had asked for the plate of sugar cookies in her hands to be delivered to the new neighbors who had moved into the little white house down the street. Sam was currently standing on the front porch of the house, waiting for the door to open. It was an almost refreshing looking house, she noted, as there was a big summery wreath hanging from the door. It was bright and full of white flowers and vivid green leaves.
Several minutes passed. The wind blew gently, tickling the wind chimes that had been hung beside a window, and lifting up the wonderful smell of a garden from the backyard. The cookies grew cold. Still no one answered the door. Sam checked the side of the house for the third time. Yes, their car was still there. She knew it was the only car the family had, because she had never seen any other. But a part of her began to doubt again. There has to be another car! There has to be some explanation! She rang the doorbell again. “Hello!”
A light flickered on upstairs and Sam nearly jumped out of her skin. Now she knew someone was home. She waited another minute. Rang the doorbell again. What could they be doing to not answer the doorbell for minutes? It must be something very important, she thought to herself.
Finally, Sam made up her mind. She placed the cookies on the welcome mat and headed back down the stone steps. As she turned back to get one final look at the little house, she noticed something in the window. It was a piece of paper taped to the glass, scribbled in ink with the words 'Come Back Tomorrow.' Sam climbed the steps again, took the cookies back with her, and left.
Sam’s house, admittedly, wasn’t quite as cute as the neighbors’. But it wasn’t anything to be ashamed of, since many of the houses on the street looked just like hers. It was a plain one-story house. You could even call it ugly looking, with its peeling gray shingles and odd brick siding and long, squat shape. But it was good enough for Sam. She didn’t mind the exterior of the house, as long as she could make her room look how she wanted it to. It was private, there was no shame in whatever she chose to do to it. Her parents probably didn’t even know what her closet looked like. She’d made a little reading nook inside, and when she was little she had smuggled candy and coins and mother’s best jewelry into the closet as well.
Now Sam was slumped in her off-white armchair, counting the ticking of the bedroom’s clock. She felt useless. There was no homework to do, and she had cleaned the house earlier that day. None of the usual activities seemed enjoyable. Her father wasn’t home. The idea of an outing with her mother only made her anxious. All she had to look forward to now was visiting the neighbors again.
Sam was on that porch again the following morning, with the seran-wrapped paper plate of cookies once again in her hands. Tap tap tap. This time there was an immediate response from inside the house. A woman’s voice. It sounded gentle yet deep, with a kind of sad sweetness to it. Someone else may have described it as dripping like honey.
“Come in, sweetheart.”
Sam grabbed the doorknob and it twisted under her hand. They left the door unlocked for me, she concluded naturally. She pushed it open, albeit cautiously, and tiptoed inside. She didn’t see anyone immediately, but she could see that the interior of the house was just as fresh and bright as the exterior was. The walls were a crisp white all around, and the kitchen windows off to the left were full of potted herbs and flowers and streaming sunlight. A few plates of half-eaten toast were left on the rustic wooden countertop. There were crayon drawings and magnets on the fridge. She has children, Sam thought. I wonder if there are any who are my age.
Now Sam could hear the woman shuffling around upstairs. She left the cookies on the table and continued a slow walk through the house. “I brought cookies.”
The shuffling stopped for a moment, then the woman spoke again and began to descend the staircase. “Sugar cookies. I know. Thank you.”
She had the same kind of freshness as the rest of her house: she was wearing a green checked button-down shirt and a stained white apron. She had wavy auburn hair that was tied behind her neck in a loose ponytail, and her face was spotted with freckles. Unlike her bright appearance, however, her eyes themselves looked exhausted. They widened for just a moment when she saw Sam, as if there was something about her that was startling. Sam tried to brush aside the thought that this woman was judging her over some small thing, but her hands were up in her black hair now, twirling it around her fingers.
“I’m glad you like them,” Sam stammered nervously. She felt herself turn to leave.
“No,” the woman cut in. And then, “--I’m sorry. Don’t leave yet. I have something to show you.”
Sam was growing more anxious with every passing second, but she smiled calmly as not to upset her new neighbor.
“Do you like...flowers?” The woman asked. Sam couldn’t comprehend the woman’s emotions, nor her intent. She couldn’t place her trust in the woman just yet, not until she opened up more.
“Yeah.”
The woman crossed through her living room and took down a vase of white flowers from the fireplace mantle. “They’re lilacs,” she said. “My favorite flowers. They smell beautiful, don’t they?”
“They do,” Sam whispered, sucking in a deep breath, her nose filling with the wonderfully sweet smell.
“Tell me your name,” the woman pressed suddenly.
“Sam,” said Sam.
“Sam,” said the woman. “Do you want to know a secret?”
Sam didn’t answer. Her mind was churning.
“These are magic flowers, Sam.” The woman had placed a gentle hand on Sam’s shoulder now. She felt her legs begin to buckle from under her. The woman caught her, held her. The last thing Sam could remember was that honey-sweet voice whispering in her ear. “Do you believe in magic, Sam? Do you believe a miracle can happen?”

I really like it! And I know you didn’t ask for critique, but the one thing that threw me off was the great amount of description of the houses. I got lost a couple times. Instead of describing every detail, you can make a couple short, impactful statements about it. The house might be different from the rest of the neighborhood, tell us why. When you get to Sam’s house, simply tell us something like. “It wasn’t bright and flowery like the neighbors' house, but it was not any more ugly from most of the houses on Sam’s street. It was long, squat, and shabby like the rest of them, but that mattered little to Sam. As long as she could do whatever she wanted with her bedroom, she was content.”
You don’t need the reader to have the exact same picture as you in their head, they just need a shabby, ugly house. And they will keep this rather quaint picture in their mind for the rest of the story and look back on it fondly. Only mention a detail if it matters later on. Then it will stand out to a reader, and they will have an ¡Aha! moment.

 

[Amer]

How come I can revise other people’s writing but not my own?

 

[Sapphire Sebright]

How come I can revise other people’s writing but not my own?

Our views on our owns works tend to differ from those on other people's work.
Self-critique can be tricky. I don't know if I'm critiquing my own work very well, honestly -- but, then again, I've only been writing seriously (granted, it's mostly fanfiction) for a little over a year. Not much time to practice critiquing.
Another thing is that revisions are meant to improve a work, and if you're too harsh on yourself, it can seem like the revision always does the opposite. This can make a person hesitant to go back and reread their stories, or make them slow or stop writing altogether.

I'll probably look back over this post later and start tugging on my hair -- I'm a bit drowsy right now, sorry.

 

[Amer]

if you're too harsh on yourself, it can seem like the revision always does the opposite.

YES IT DOES! I feel like every time I look at it I'll notice something new I need to micromanage. I think I'll highlight parts and not touch them so I can get to the rest of the story.

 

[Amer]

if you're too harsh on yourself, it can seem like the revision always does the opposite.

YES IT DOES! I feel like every time I look at it I'll notice something new I need to micromanage. I think I'll highlight parts and not touch them so I can get to the rest of the story.