I spiffied up my professional website in preparation for querying. Check it out! Pay special attention to the “fiction” section–there are now all sorts of goodies there, including the prologue and first chapter of my novel, a book cover mock-up, and a blurb.

In case you’re curious about the book cover, but too lazy to click one gosh-danged link the book cover and a larger image (suitable for desktop backgrounds! Why not have Miranda on your desktop?!) are below. They’re based on a picture from flickr.com of user danielleblue. Hooray for creative commons licensing! I’ll also throw an image below that I didn’t end up using: a mock-up of the seal of Sacred Grove Academy, where my story takes place.

There was a time, in elementary school, when I didn’t think I’d have to choose between writing and art. I could be an author-slash-illustrator! That seemed like the perfect job!

That changed as I got older. First, in middle school, I was pressured by the guidance counselor to drop either my creative writing class or my art class. So for a time and through most of high school, I took art classes and thought of myself as an artist. I carried my sketchbook everywhere–sure, it was littered with stories and poems, too, but the drawings were the centerpieces. And, when the time came to apply to college I applied, initially, to art schools.

If you think the MFA-in-writing application process is brutal, then I guarantee you’ve never applied to The Cooper Union, an extremely competitive and free school in New York City, at eighteen and insecure. I wasn’t the only one who ended my portfolio review sessions (I went to three of them) in tears, having been told that I’d be better off not being an artist–I saw it happen to others around me, too. I wasn’t alone, but it didn’t make it any easier. Sure, I got accepted into other schools–MICA, Parsons–but between the large debt I was about to take on, and the fact that the application process essentially crushed me, I took a semester off and applied to state schools for writing instead.

(Yes, I ran away.)

I’ve never regretted it, because the choices I made made me who I am today, though that doesn’t mean that I haven’t felt sad that my art’s taken a backseat, relegated to cheap but meaningful gifts for loved ones when I haven’t had the money to buy them something they probably really wanted. But before I took John Cech‘s class on Childhood and Creativity last year, it had been years since I took myself at all seriously as an artist.

But thanks to the recommendations of both John and Sidney Wade, I was recently given the opportunity to illustrate a children’s book for a new press here in Gainesville. I’ll post more information when their website is up and running and the book is available for sale, but I’m nearly done with the images and wanted to share what I have so far.

The process was rough, strange and unfamiliar to me, but also challenging. It’s felt frankly wonderful to do art. I don’t know if I’ll have the time or the particular inclination to illustrate another book soon–at least not until the wedding is done with–but an old, old itch has returned. I could illustrate my own books! Give my verbal ideas visual form! Yes, it’s the author-slash-illustrator itch, the one I’ve been so sure was childish and unrealistic.

All of this makes me wonder about the potential damage of pigeonholing one’s self creatively. Though we’re not exactly polymaths, I have encountered others in the MFA program who dabbled in art, not always taking themselves as terribly seriously as visual artists as they do as writers. My sister both writes and draws and made the opposite choices I did in terms of college and graduate school, largely focusing on art. Careerwise, I would have thought such choices inevitable, maybe because it’s what my guidance counselor told me when I was twelve, and both the art and writing world seemed to support it. But maybe there is–and should be–more interplay between creativity’s than common wisdom holds. I’ve found that true in terms of writing genre (these days, eliding between fiction and poetry and sometimes something in between)–why can’t it be true of medium as well?

And of course, the irony hasn’t escaped me that, for the first time, my name is going to be on the cover of a published book, and I wasn’t the one who wrote it. The irony hasn’t escaped me at all.

An opportunity recently fell in my lap to illustrate a children’s book, thanks to some of my professors. Even at this early stage–preliminary character sketches–it’s been an incredible challenge. I’ve been pushing myself in ways that I hadn’t realized I could be pushed, pressing myself to more finished, clean-looking drawings. Thank goodness for John Cech’s class; it really gave me the warm-up I needed.

Looking at the drawings I’ve done so far, I can’t help but wonder what my art was really like back in high school. I had notebook upon notebook filled with sketches of role-playing characters, but they often had an unfinished edge to them. I don’t think it was because I wasn’t capable. I think it was because I didn’t push myself. I could draw well enough generally that I didn’t have to try to make things look really polished, or whole, or complete. To be fair, through high school, I felt that way about a lot of things. Like many other people, I had plenty of page-long novels. In all classes but English and art, I only pushed myself hard enough to get Bs. And I’m not sure I pushed myself much harder than that in those subjects, because I never really had to.

Several factors have contributed to an improved work ethic over the past three years or so–starting with nearly finishing NaNoWriMo 06, continuing with keeping track of what I read (and therefore taking my reading more seriously as a contributing factor in my writing), finishing the rough draft of a YA novel over the summer, writing a thesis I was really proud of, continuing to send my work out. I promise listing those meager accomplishments isn’t intended as bragging. The truth is, every step of the process–all processes–was hard work. I guess this is just a way to say that I’ve learned to push myself hard enough to finish what I start. I don’t really want to be a mediocre anything anymore (except maybe banjo-player–I’m fine with that being just a hobby, unlike most things I try to tackle), and I’ve realized what it takes, how much effort one needs to expend, to not just be talented but good.

I have essentially graduated from graduate school and spring–well, summer, really, here in Gainesville–has sprung. This is what’s been happening:

Sammy got sick a few weeks ago–vomiting! not eating! not pooping either!–and had to be hospitalized. He had an IV put in him and was rehydrated and on medicines. He’s fine now (it was probably, of all things, a huge hairball), but (in addition to the thousand dollar pet bill), the experience resulted in this:

1. Cat with a poodle arm.

2. Crass greeting cards from my mother.

I painted my toenails. As you can see, I’m not very good at it.

And my closet is now a walk-in closet. You just can’t walk very far into it.

I was introduced to the Wine and Cheese Gallery which is only a block from my house and serves both wine and cheese. It’s a lovely place, but maybe it was the wine and the company that made me feel that way.

(I have been so socially happy lately. Thanks guys–you mean the world to me.)

I have been going on job interviews. Here is my favorite interview outfit. I look like a school marm, or a stereotypical librarian (not the sassy kind).

Finally, I’ve been arting. Below are some sketches–one, of my cat (drawn from life!), the other a drawing of myself (drawn from life!) which I drew after getting into an argument with Pat about drawing from life.

Note to self: hands look like oven mitts. Practice drawing hands.