Thankfully, I'm still working

I haven't posted any work lately, so here goes. The above illustration is for the Effa Manley book that I finished last September. I recently received color proofs, and I'm happy with how the book is turning out. It will publish with HarperCollins later this year.







The above are 2 of 8 images I recently created for National Geographic Kids.







Above: 3 of 11 paintings I created for a friend's business, Kingdom Calling.



Above: A poster image for the Take 190 West Arts Festival.






Above: Two of many, many, many images created for National Geographic.

SCBWI Destination Publication 2010 Conference

(Photo borrowed from author Jo Whittemore's Facebook page, and thanks to the mother-in-law for my favorite sweater.)

The Austin SCBWI Destination Publication 2010 conference was a total success. The speakers were topnotch. The organizers were gracious and tireless. The attendees enthusiastic and energized.

Highlights (for me): Hanging out with my literary agent, MarkMcVeigh. On Friday afternoon, after picking him up from the airport, and getting him checked in to his hotel, we sat down and discussed my work. He offered valuable feedback on three of my manuscripts, and we discussed a plan of action for getting them ready for sale. We also discussed my YA novel WIP, now at over 10,000 words, first draft.

After discussing my manuscripts, we, um, went shopping. My wife will never believe it, but I did. And I didn't complain or make a mean face, not once, I don't think. Mark was looking for vintage cowboy boots, so I took him to several Goodwill and Salvation Army stores. He schooled me about clothing and designer labels, ties, men's and women's shoes, purses. Did you know that Prada was much more than a word in a movie title? Mark is a class act. Unfortunately for him, though, Austin is more about cargo shorts and flip-flops, so he didn't find Couture anything. But I found something: THE LITTLE RASCALS remastered on VHS, for $1.00.

Other highlights:

--The pre-conference party at the home of Greg and Cynthia Leitich-Smith. The food, yum! I didn't go the the post conference party. I'm not exactly a socialite, so after one party and a full day of conferencing, I just needed to get away from people and hide.

--Caldecott Honor illustrator Marla Frazee's keynote, followed by a sit-down discussion with author Liz Garton Scanlon. They discussed their true collaboration on the book, ALL THE WORLD. I was so affected by the discussion that I will never approach a picture book project the same. I think through my picture books before sketching, of course. I plan and I create thumbnails, too. But Marla takes this process to a much higher level. She raised the bar, and I spent much of the evening considering how I need to change my work habits to reach that level. I was amazed by Liz. I already knew she was talented. I've had the honor of reading a few of her WIPs. But I didn't know the backstory behind ALL THE WORLD. Wow, she's truly a rock star.

--Chatting with up-and-comer illustrator-author Clint Young. If you don't recognize that name, you soon will. Believe me.

--Hanging out with award-winning illustrator Mike Benny.

--Carmen Oliver received the MEREDITH DAVIS VOLUNTEER OF THE YEAR AWARD, which was so well deserved.

All of the speakers were fantastic, but I especially enjoyed Lisa Graff's talk, "Write Like an Author, Revise like an Editor." She described herself as "being a little bit goofy," and yes she was, but that's what made her presentation so much fun. You can tell she writes for teens. She reminded us to read books with the eye of an editor, which is something I've already been doing, and explains why I know nothing about the current book I'm reading. I'm reading it, but I'm not focused on the story at all, I'm asking myself questions like, "Why did the author begin her dialog here?" and "What motivated the character to do this?" You do learn a lot by reading this way, but it's definitely kills the fun of the story.

The day ended with a panel that included many successful Austin authors and illustrators, including Chris Barton, Jessica Anderson, Liz Garton Scanlon, P.J. Hoover, Jennifer Ziegler, Shana Burg, Philp Yates, Patrice Barton and Jacqueline Kelly. Each offered a golden nugget of wisdom, and I especially cracked up at the wonderful poetry of Philp Yates, who wrote and shared an ode to Austin's talented children's and YA community.

Lowlight: Walking up to Newbery Honor author, Kirby Larson at the Leitich-Smith party, and asking her, "So, are you an agent, editor, author or illustrator?." Then asking her, "What have you written?"

Great day, it was. Too bad my handwriting is so sloppy, I can't even read the notes I took.

5 quick writing tips

So this guy sends an email, asking me for writing advice. Says he’s looking for a “good older writer” to make his stuff better.

Cute.

Anyway, I’m honored he thinks I’m a good writer, and I’m thankful he offered his compliments. But instead of responding to him directly, I’m quickly posting a few tips.

1. Write everyday. Doesn’t matter what you write – stories, poems, whatever. Just write.

2. Read everyday. Yes, it does matter what you read. Read the kind of stuff you want to write. Want to write novels? Read lots of novels. Want to write poetry? Read lots of poetry.

3. Join a writers group. SCBWI is a good one if you're writing for kids. If you’re in Texas, The Writer’s League of Texas is another. But there are others. In these groups, you’ll find lots of writers like yourself who are asking the same questions, and lots and lots of published writers who can answer them.

4. Take a writing course. Now if you’re like me, you don’t have time and can’t afford one. But that’s no excuse. There’s lots of online resources that can teach you about correct grammar, punctuation and general writing tips. Where do you think I learned to write bad metaphors.

5. Um, write some more. Practice makes perfect. Revise (throw it away, start over).

Of course there’s more, at least there is when you get more into storytelling. Voice. Point of view. Tense. Story and character arc. Rising and falling action. Similes . . . on and on and on and on. Just enough stuff to make you want to tear your hair out. But that will come later. For now, simply write. And have fun!

And please forgive my typos and spelling and grammar, because I'm learning, too.

Specific advice to the guy who wrote the letter to me: Spell it out. “R U happy 4 me?” is a great way to express yourself in a text message. But probably a bad habit to lose early on, though keep in mind, all rules are made to be broken.

Acid head

I created this illustration for a Features story, where battery experts discussed tennis shoes. No, I kid. They talked batteries, of course.

I’m 46 today. I haven’t worn baggies in 30 years. And I still don’t pimp walk.

"Ain't nothing like a fresh pair of baggies," Morris Day of The Time sang, in a popular 80s song. That was my mantra in high school, too. Baggies were a style of pants kids wore back in the day. Don’t confuse them with the sagging, thug-style pants kids wear today. Baggies were dressier. Inspired by the zoot-suit style pants of the 20s, baggies were usually pleated at the waist, extra roomy in the leg, narrow at the ankle. They were worn high on the belly, sometimes with wide suspenders. I had a pair in every color of the rainbow — slacks and jeans.

The summer before my senior year, my uncle took a buddy of mine and I to Kansas City to purchase baggies at Harold Pener, an urban men’s wear store. The pants were sold at stores in Des Moines, too. But we wanted baggies like no one else had. We wanted big-city baggies!

When we arrived in Kansas City, my uncle got out the car and led the way into the store. He walked with a strut. A "pimp walk," as we used to call it. That’s where you stick your chest out, skip-step one foot forward, twisting at the waist. Then s-l-o-w-l-y drag your other foot forward while bouncing your head like you’re listening to James Brown. It’s a slow and artful cadence. Don't try this out in public if you ain't cool, you'll look like a dweeb.

My friend snickered, reached over and poked me in the back and then pointed ahead. My uncle wore a cheap pair of sneakers. His green warm-up suit was a size too tight, with one pant leg rolled up to his knee. He topped-off this outfit an apple hat, his salt-and-pepper afro jutting out in every direction, like it wanted to escape from the scene.

"Your uncle looks like he works for some kind of senior citizen pimp squad," my friend said, laughing.

I didn't laugh. Well, maybe I did, I was 17.

My uncle was a well-known barber, the coolest of cool dudes in the Black community. I loved him. He had a slightly oversized belly, just like his dad, my grandpa. It stuck out beyond his body, even though he wasn't an overweight man. He was in his mid 40s, but had been ageless to me up until that second.

For the first time, I began to see my uncle as an old man. Wrinkles suddenly appeared on his face. His salt-and-pepper gray hair suddenly got saltier. His pimp walk wasn’t so cool. I promised myself I'd never grow old, or at least not look old. I'd stay in shape. Never get an oversized belly. Never let my hair go grey. I'd always dress in the current styles of the day. And I’d never, ever, pimp walk.

Fast forward almost 30 years. I stopped at a convenience store after dropping my son off at school. When I got out of my car, guess who I saw in the window of the store: My uncle. An older Black man with graying hair, wearing a warm-up suit (one leg rolled up), cheap sneakers. I laughed out loud because it wasn't my uncle after all. It was me last month. That 17-year-old kid would not have approved.

Today's my birthday. I'm 46-years-old. One year past 45. Closer now to 50, than 40. I'm a grandfather, too, with three grandchildren. Four, possibly five or six, if my daughter doesn't slow down soon.

I'm OK with being 46. I'm still here, alive and kicking. All of my body pieces still work. I have a wonderful family, a career that I love, a bright future. And I have friends, too. I've never been able to say that until recently.

I do struggle with the belly-thing. My pant size is at 33, down from 34 at my largest. But I'm in better shape now than that 17 year-old kid who wore a size 27 baggie, smoked cigarettes for breakfast, lunch and dinner, and never worked out a day in his life. I’m good. And I’ve never pimp walked.

Halloween illustrations

Just a few Halloween illustrations that ran in the paper this weekend, for a story about your scary social networking friends — people like your parents, or those who offer links to things everyone already knows about.

This isn't as easy as it looks

First off, I'm not venting. I'm simply highlighting a recent project that proved difficult. Everything isn't always ice cream and bubble gum here. It's not always easy. Sometimes it's work. Here's how it went:

They basically provided me with this photograph, and asked me to render it in a loose, painterly style.



















Here's a portion of my sketch and the final painting:















They didn't like it. They thought the girl looked older in the painting than in the photo (which, I agree, she does), and they thought, not very attractive.

So, I created this new sketch, with a focus on making her more attractive.



















They didn't like the revision, and I didn't like the idea of trying to make her more attractive. More attractive to who? I also felt the sketch no longer looked like the girl in the photo.

So, I sent this revised sketch, making her eyes bigger. I thought it worked. They didn't like it.


















So I sent this new sketch. They didn't like it.
















So I sent another sketch. They didn't like it.
















So they sent this new photo, which they felt was more attractive, and asked me to render it instead.














And I created this sketch.














The project was canceled. Not because of my work, they said. But because both photos are of a famous person, and there are copyright issues that weren't considered. On to my next project.

Again, I'm not complaining. I got paid fairly for my work. The publisher is one of the best, and the art director was absolutely fabulous, one of the sweetest people I've ever worked with.

Where The Wild Things Are, my thoughts

I was there on opening day, and I wanted to hate the movie. I wanted to leave the theater cursing the director. How dare someone ruin the best picture book ever with Muppets and actors. I entered the theater with a mixture of bad attitude and anxious anticipation. But I left eagerly awaiting its release on DVD. I absolutely loved it.

My wife wasn't interested in seeing WHERE THE WILD THINGS ARE, and my son was too afraid, so I went alone. Good thing I did, because he would have been scared, and we would have left early. Then he would have slept in bed with my wife and I for weeks following.

It was a totally fun experience. I especially enjoyed comparing the differences between the movie and the book, though I think they did a good job of keeping to the basic premise of the story — kid misbehaves, makes his mother angry, takes a trip to a far-off island, becomes king of the Wild Things.

In the book, Max is sent to his room, which then transforms into a jungle. But in the movie, he runs off into the night, comes upon a boat, and sails off toward the island. Little details, like the explosive mishap with his mother — tipsy from a glass of wine, and kissy-kissy with a boyfriend, made the story-line more true to contemporary life.

I loved the monsters. Visually, they were right on target. They perfectly matched the cross-hatched characters from the book, and their adult personalities added icing to the cake. They reminded me of people I know, which suggests I know quite a few crazy folk. My favorite part of the movie was when Carol shared with Max his hand-made model of the island. It represented his dream of a perfect, happy, kingdom, which he didn't believe could ever happen. But Max convinced Carol to believe, and all the Wild Things came together to build the fort, based upon the model. Nice job of filling in details left to the imagination in the book.

There were some uncomfortable moments, too. Quite a few actually. The scenes with the owls, Bob and Terry, who were abruptly, and brutally, stoned to the ground in mid-flight by KW, the Hippy-ish Wild Thing, and love interest to Carol. My stomach turned when the birds were stoned, and I never quite figured out if they were truly friends of the Wild Things, or captives.

I thought the dirt fight was distasteful, too. It reminded me of a real-life brick fight I had as a child, which, just like Alexander, the littlest (and sweetest) of the Wild Things, left me bloodied with a gash in my skull. The scene was cruel, and my son would not have liked it. And the scene with Douglas' wing getting ripped off — ack! They could have left that scene out.

I was afraid the movie would render the book irrelevant to future generations of kids. What kid would want to read the book, in it's simplicity, after seeing the movie? But no worries, WHERE THE WILD THINGS ARE is not a movie for kids. So give the kiddos the book, leave them at home, and go enjoy the movie without them.

My brushes with TV greatness

I had my first experience with broadcast television in college. My cousins and I read for a part in a movie to be filmed at a local movie studio in Des Moines. One of my older cousins actually snagged a starring role, and I was called back to fill in as an extra. They told me to bring a few friends.

The next couple of weeks were on-and-off with the movie studio. My friends and I would show up at the set only to be told to go home and wait for another call. After we finally got the call, we ended up sitting in a room in the back of the studio for two days straight, sleeping on cots and eating. They fed us well even if they only paid us $50.

I finally got my chance behind camera toward the end of the second day. My part: A gang member. They tied my head up with a bandana scarf, and had me lay on a hospital gurney, as though I'd been beaten up in a gang fight. I laid there, breathed hard, occasionally moaned. That was the extent of my movie career.

But yesterday I had the opportunity to star in my own half-hour presentation to students all over the Killeen school district. The shoot was held in the studios of Channel 17, at the Jackson Professional Learning Center. The segment is now running every two hours and will continue to do so over the next year. I had the option of having the segment broadcast to a wider Texas audience, and even to have it available to schools as a downloadable podcast. But I worried about losing future school visit opportunities, so I opted to keep the broadcast local to Killeen.

The audience of 4th graders was very quiet at first, subdued. They didn't respond much to questions or applaud. My readings were followed by an awkward silence. But I think they were nervous. They were on TV, too, surrounded by three huge cameras, and sitting in the dark. But half way through the presentation they loosened up. They asked great questions and interacted with me quite enthusiastically.

Good thing I'm past my fear of public speaking (for the most part), because the experience behind camera — with 50,000 kids watching — would have freaked me out. It was a fun day and a very nice opportunity. Once I get the raw footage, I plan to edit together an abridged version to use as promotion for my school visit program.

Next on the program, a SKYPE school visit, direct from my home studio, with high school kids looking on. What fun that'll be!




































(click here and scroll down to see photos from an older tv segment)

Food tats

This is a recent illustration I did for the newspaper where I work. The story was about . . . well, do I really have to say?

Kudos to Zetta

Check out Zetta Elliott's Something like an open letter to the children's publishing industry.

Good stuff.

10 years an Austinite: Blow-up sofa meets Ms. Snooty

So there we were, me, my wife and my then 16-year-old daughter, near an air pump at a South Austin convenience store, unsuccessfully trying to stuff an inflatable sofa into the back of my pickup. Can you picture this? Well, this scene played out within the first month after we moved to Austin.

The sofa was my wife's idea. Before we'd moved to Austin, she insisted we sell our living room furniture. She never liked our set because I'd purchased it before we got married and, apparently, she had a dislike for overstuffed brown and plaid tweed.

Actually, she'd insisted many times before that we get rid of the furniture, but I was more of a practical person. Sofas were for sitting, not for looking at, or for matching the curtains. I'd paid for that furniture, it was less than five years old, so it didn't make any sense to get rid of it. But we were moving to a new city, and I was ready to begin life anew. I sold our living room set for practically nothing. Go figure.

We moved to Austin at a time when everyone else in the country was moving here, too. The occupancy rate for apartments was something like 99 percent, so I was lucky to find an empty apartment for my family.

We rented a small, newly-built, three-bedroom apartment in South Austin. It had central air, an automatic dishwasher and garbage disposal — a new experience for us. We were living large compared to where we had come from, with the exception that we were sitting on the floor. The move hadn't cost us a dime, but we didn't have enough money to purchase another living room set.

While shopping, my wife purchased a sofa that fit our budget perfectly. She brought it home one evening in a Target shopping bag. It was no heavier than a blanket, silver and see-through, retro-looking. Inflated, it looked like a miniature model of The Hindenburg. Or a Marine rescue boat. Had we lived in a flood plane, there would have been no worries.

The sofa was larger than average, and it sat higher. To sit down, you practically had to climb up on it. And worse yet, it filled the entire apartment with the aroma a shower curtain.

I thought: Is she kidding? I'm in a brand-spanking new apartment, in a brand-spanking new city, with a brand-spanking new job. I'm not furnishing my home with an over-sized birthday party balloon. I objected, but my objections were overruled by our budget. We kept The Hindenburg with a plan to get new furniture when we had a house built.

On most days it wasn't an issue. We didn't know anyone in Austin, so we didn't have any visitors . . . well, except for one: Ms. Snooty. My daughter had become best friends with a girl at her school. Her mother was one of those bourgeois people who had acquired a little money from her in-home nursing business and looked down her nose at anyone who didn't drive a Lexis nicer than hers.

Ms. Snooty and her daughter lived in a beautifully furnished house, in the upscale and affluent Circle C subdivision. I'd been there many times to drop off and pick up my daughter, and Ms. Snooty often offered advice on the proper ways to raise a teenage daughter — like we had been doing it wrong all along. One time, she even offered to keep our daughter for us, because, she said, our daughter would be much happier living with her. Biach!

After a football game one evening, the girls had planned to sleep over with us. So before the game, Ms. Snooty dropped in for a visit to check things out.

"Lovely place you have here," she said, as she walked in to our apartment. Her tone was disapproving. She scanned every inch of the kitchen and living room, which was mostly naked with the exception of a small dinette set, a television, and The Hindenburg.

"Have a seat," I said, reluctantly, stretching my hand out towards a chair at the dinette. "Can I get you something to drink?"

"Water," she said, dryly. The girls scurried off to the back bedroom and slammed the door. My wife removed a bottle of water from the refrigerator, poured it into a glass and handed it to Ms. Snooty, whose eyes were frozen on The Hindenburg.

"It's just temporary," I said, giggling nervously. "We plan to get new furniture after we buy a house." I made small talk about the Austin housing market when Ms. Snooty unexpectedly walked over to the sofa and sat down. The friction from her leather skirt and the plastic made an unfortunate, flatulent noise. If it were possible for a Black woman to turn red, Ms. Snooty would have been purple.

My wife and I looked at each other, wanting to crack up. We didn't because, suddenly, the side of the sofa that Ms. Snooty was sitting on began to sink, while the other end began to rise. Within seconds, The Hindenburg was standing upright near a 45-degree angle. Squatted down there with her butt on the sofa — and one hand on the ground for balance — she looked like the Center in a football game, ready the hike the ball. Our so-called decorative pillows had slid down and piled against her side, which made her balancing act even more awkward.

The three of us continued to chat for a half-hour, acting as though nothing out of the ordinary were happening. When Ms. Snooty had enough of our plastic airship she quickly made an exit. It was a humbling experience for everyone involved.

We lived in that apartment for six months before we moved into our new home. The Hindenburg currently resides in our garage, folded up in a corner, to be sold at our neighborhood garage sale later this fall.

I couldn’t find an image of the actual sofa, but I did find the chair version. Just imagine it four times the length and twice as tall.

10 years an Austinite: The interview was much about hair

A few days before my interview at the Austin newspaper, I made an appointment with a barber to have my dreadlocks cut off. I really wanted the job, and I didn’t want my hair to stand in the way. Dreadlocks weren't mainstream in the late 90s, at least not in Des Moines, Iowa — not even with Black people.

I hadn’t been to Austin, Texas before, so I didn’t know about the city’s laid-back atmosphere. I didn’t know about the "Keep Austin Weird" slogan, or that Austin was known as the Live Music Capital of the World, a place where dreadlocks were considered tame in comparison to purple spikes and the gothic vampire look.

I didn’t keep my appointment with the barber, though. I loved my dreadlocks and knew I'd be angry with myself for cutting them, especially if I didn’t get the job.

After my plane landed in Austin, I took a cab to my hotel. As I stood in the shower, I began to scold myself. Are you stupid or what? You should have cut the things off. Maybe I didn't want the job. Perhaps I was too scared to move away from Des Moines, the only place I'd ever lived. Did I intentionally sabotage my interview? I dried myself off, slipped into a suit and tie, and pulled my dreadlocks back neatly into a ponytail. Then I crossed my fingers and went down to the lobby, where I was to meet the newspaper’s graphics editor.

Nervous about the interview, I stepped outside to get some fresh air — which, in retrospect, was ridiculous considering it was about 110 degrees out there. I paced the sidewalk, taking in Austin’s beautiful downtown skyline. The picturesque view put me at ease. Within a few minutes, a small black racecar with a dingy paint job pulled up and parked near me. It’s engine rumbled loud like a modified Harley Davidson motorcycle.

An African American man, about my same age but a full head taller, opened the door of the car and stepped out. “I’m the graphics editor for the newspaper,” he said, shaking my hand. His dreadlocks — almost twice as long as mine — bounced wildly around his shoulders as we shook hands.

I had a great interview. And, yes, in between talking graphics and journalism and Austin oddities, we talked dreadlocks. I got the job.

10 years an Austinite: From the capital of corn to the live music capital

It's hard to believe, but this week marks ten years that my family and I have lived in Austin, Texas. It took forever for me to refer to myself as a Texan, because I was a proud Iowan. As far as I was concerned, I only lived in Texas, temporarily. I would return to Iowa someday.

My wife and I, and my then 16-year-old daughter, moved to Austin in late August of 1999 from Des Moines. On the day we left, the weather had been unusually cool, but once we hit Texas, temperatures skyrocketed to something crazy like 110. I remember feeling like I was going to smother under the weight of the sun. My skin burned, and I was astonished by the number of people who were actually outside jogging. My shirts were perpetually damp from sweat, and I gave up on the idea of ever smelling fresh again. No amount of antiperspirant was a match for Texas heat.

Those first few years in Austin were the most exciting time of my life. Everything was so new — new job, new apartment, new people. Dishwasher! The apartment we moved into was brand-spanking new and it had a dishwasher. It was the first time in my life I'd ever had such a convenience. There were new places to eat, new stores to shop, new parks to explore. Every day served up a new adventure.

We've been here ten years now, and we love Austin today the same as the first day we move here. I can say it now, "I'm Texan."

For the next week or so, I plan to write about my journey to Austin. What brought my family from the corn capital of the world to the live music capital? What were our highlights over the past ten years? The low points? And what's on the road ahead?

-------------
Pictured: I tried to find the perfect picture to post, one of my wife and family when we first moved to Austin, but I couldn't find one. The picture above is of me and two of my three brothers on the day before I moved to Austin, at a going-away party given by my extended family.

Cover ideas

For the most part, I'm finished with interior illustrations for She Loved Baseball: The Effa Manley Story. Some paintings might could use a bit of tweaking, but nothing very time consuming. I hope.

At this point the editor and art director, and I are discussing ideas for the cover. And it's tricky. The story itself is quiet, as are most of the interior illustrations. But they would like a lively cover. So I'm going to kick around a few ideas over the next week, inbetween my other projects (snagged a good one yesterday).

Now here's the funny part. I wasn't happy with two of the interior illustrations. In fact, I had planned to redo them but ran out of time. With one spot I kinda went over-the-top with my color choices, and I wanted to tone down the palette. With the other spread I wasn't sure what to do, but I felt like something was wrong.

But guess what? The spread I wanted to throw out is my art director's favorite. And the spread with the wild colors is my editor's favorite — go figure. In fact they like the colorful spread so much, they want me to use a similar palette on the cover.

Art is so subjective, there's really no right or wrong. Just do it and have fun.

Huge contrast

This has been my work area the past few days while I revise my picture book biography, unstaged (notice Tweetdeck on my computer screen, and excuse the strawberry decor).

This is my typical work space. As I sat down to work today, I couldn't help but notice the contrast.

Wearing my writer's cap

Over the past couple of weeks, I've been acting more like a writer than an artist. While last week I prepared for the AAW workshop, this week my focus has been on revisions for Bill, a picture book biography which will publish with Lee & Low Books next fall. I’m having a ball revising, but I’m also finding it very tricky.

It’s been almost four years since my editor offered me the opportunity to revise the manuscript for publication, and more than two years since it was actually acquired. It’s been almost a year-and-a-half since the last revision. In all honesty, other than When’s this book ever gonna publish? I haven’t thought about it much. Looking at it now is almost like looking at it for the first time. For instance, I found myself getting all salty with my editor, thinking she had added her own phrases to the manuscript. Those words are too good to be mine, I thought. But looking closer at past versions, I realized the words were mine. Somewhere around revision 26, I forgot.

Seeing the manuscript fresh has helped me to see problems I might otherwise have not. But I have to be very careful when making changes – even little ones. The story is nonfiction. My word choices were made very carefully, based on research. So each time I make a change, I have to go back to my research to double-check that I’m not messing up history. What I’ve discovered is that, although one word or phrase might sound or flow better, another word or phrase might suggest something inaccurate.

In addition, the illustrator for the book and the editor have a few questions. The answers will affect the art. Problem is, finding these answers haven't been easy because my story involves a slave. Slaves were considered property, like a horse or a mule, and the census didn't go knocking door-to-door counting mules — or Black people, for that matter.

It's been interesting swapping roles, artist to author. But I've learned that I love telling stories with words as much as I do with paint.

Now, it's back to the drawing board to the manuscript for me.

Awesome Austin Writers workshop, '09

Awesome Austin Writers, The Outsiders, top row: Brian Yansky, Donna Bowman Bratton, Patrick Swayze Bottom row: Shana Burg, Debbie Gonzales, Don Tate

I'm pumped! Yesterday I attended the Awesome Austin Writers workshop, along with 20 other published and near-published children's and YA authors. The event was hosted in the beautiful home of Austin SCBWI founder Meredith Davis (think: Beverly Hills meets Lake Austin).

The day-long critique session kicked off with a tasty breakfast, but then it was down to business. We split up into four groups of five people. My group: The Outsiders. There were also Frogs and Toads, Wild Things and Ramonas! Cool? I'm sorry I don't have pictures to post. I carried my camera with me but didn't feel comfortable snapping pictures, everyone knowing they'd end up right here on my blog.

Two months before the workshop, each writer submitted 10 pages of a work in progress and each team was given copies. We spent almost an hour critiquing each person's work. It was a definite growing experience for me because I was forced to read different genres that, typically, I avoid. Like sci-fi. If a book even looks sci-fi I won't pick it up. But Brian submitted a sci-fi manuscript, and I read it and enjoyed it. I even realized one idea I've been kicking around might be considered sci-fi.

Between critiques we had group discussions on various topics ranging from social networking to speaking events -- when and when not give free appearances.

As far as I could recall, I was the only art-guy-author there. But I felt welcomed, and I value the feedback I received.

I submitted a 1,200 word picture book biography, which included an authors note and an afterward. Without giving away my story, here's what I learned:

My subject has a compelling story that can be told from many angles. Unfortunately, I chose every angle. I'll need to focus a bit.

Although most biographies are told in chronological order, I don't have to begin telling my story at the beginning.

I'm a "but" man, apparently. I used the word "but" 16 times in a 1,200 word manuscript. I'll need to work on that.

Even though I don't know how it smelled or felt or tasted in the 1800s, I can assume it smelled and felt and tasted the same as it does today. I need to use more sensory details to bring the story alive.

I saved the passion for my afterward. Everyone seemed moved by my authors note and the afterward. So I'll need to figure a way to weave in some of that passion into the story itself.

The day ended with a first-page reading. Most everyone submitted one half of the first page of a work in progress, which was read out loud. Originally I'd planned to submit a humorous, rhyming picture book I've been working on. But I shied away from that, knowing most other submissions would be YA or middle-grade chapter books. I'm glad I made that decision.

At the last minute, I dug out one particular picture book manuscript that I really, really love, but hasn't sold yet after two years. I think it's a story that would have sold with no problem a few years ago. But things have changed. So I decided to rewrite it as a chapter book (ages 4-5-6). I stayed up late the night before rewriting the first page. And everyone laughed! In all the right places! It was great!

Self observation

I've learned something about myself. I'm either more dyslexic than I thought, or I have absolutely no idea how to correctly hold a baseball bat.

A grueling four months comes to an end

When I think about my accomplishments over the past four months, I
feel both gratified and exasperated. Here's what I've been up to:


Finished painting She Loved Baseball, a picture book biography about Negro League Baseball owner Effa Manley, written by Audrey Vernick. This book required 23 pieces of art, possibly 24 since the cover has yet to be determined.

Gave 10 speaking presentations at school libraries, writing conferences, and book fairs.

Completed 4 small, in-and-out in a day freelance projects for educational publishing.

Spent 4 days in North Carolina with my Aunt Eleanora, following the sudden passing of her husband, my uncle Zack.

Attended and participated in no less than 20 end-of-the-year school activities, sporting events, summer camp programs, Scouting events.

Wrote and revised a humorous picture book (out to an editor); wrote a first draft of a picture book biography.

Read 10 pages from 5 manuscripts for an upcoming writing/critiquing event.

And don't forget, I work a part-time job at the newspaper three days per week, which allows me to do all these other things.

Things I haven't accomplished:


Working out. Yes, I'm out of shape, fat around the edges, and weak. And to make matters worse, every bodypart jiggles, including those that should be stationary.

Vegas vacation. My wife and son spent 11 days in Las Vegas without me.

My son's track meets. There was no way I could forfeit entire days in order to watch my son run in a 30-second track event. Kudos to my wife who did this.

Several get-togethers and a road trip with local authors and illustrators.

Church. Even though I sleep through most sermons, I don't like to miss church because I think it's important for my son to know I value going to church.