Derailed on Friday

My book was due to the publisher today. But because of the holiday, they requested it be delivered on next Wednesday. Great! Bought me an extra couple of days, allowed me to work at a slower, more relaxed (relaxed is relative) pace. I appreciated that turn of events.

But then this morning, before I began putting final touches on the last painting, I received a large batch of revision requests in my email box. And that derailed me.

I put my brushes away; I'm not painting today. My son got a new skateboard. I think I'm going skateboarding.

The good thing about all of this is, it put me in cranky enough a mood, that I'm gonna call a certain educational publisher (and artist agent) and demand payment for a project I completed and billed for in January. It's been almost five months and I've been real nice about it. Up till now.

Thanks for your input

The other day, I solicited your opinion on one of my illustrations. Your input — along with my wife's — really helped. For whatever reason, I felt like I needed to break up the large brown hardwood floor area in the painting, so I'd considered doing something creative with lighting. But that didn't quite work, and that wasn't the problem anyway.

After reading your responses, and after looking at my original sketches, I realized that my biggest problem was cropping. Originally I'd planned to crop in tight, but later added more image to allow the designer some play room, in case he didn't want Ron's ear to fall in the gutter. But expanding the image also took away from the focus. When I crop in as originally planned, the large floor becomes less of an issue. Plus, I forgot, I'd already addressed the flat floor area by adding the rug, not a part of my original sketch (hope my publisher won't mind these little unplanned additions).

Thanks again!

The coveted Oscar

I stirred in the pew each time they called a child's name, happy for those who received an Oscar, an end-of-the-year trophy, awarded to the school's top performers. I listened for my son's name.

"Will I get an Oscar?" my son had asked earlier that morning, on the way to school.

"I don't know, man." I said. "Regardless, you've done your best this year. I'm proud of you." My son didn't respond to my Father Knows Best moment. He wanted a trophy.

One by one, a child would step forward to accept his or her Oscar for the A,B Honor Roll. I grew antsy as the number of trophies thinned. I couldn't recall my son bringing home a C all year long. Heck, he hadn't received a B or a C since entering the school two years ago. He's an A student.

As the last few names were called off, my son's eyes grew as big as quarters. He fidgeted with his shirt and swayed from side to side. He bit the inside of his lip, a nervous habit he must have inherited from me. To reassure him of the pride I felt regardless, I stood up, lifted my camera and took a few pictures. He forced a grin through cheeks stiff as cardboard.

I couldn't see my wife from where I stood, but I knew she was thinking about our nightly rituals, supervising my son's homework — 100 math problems, 15 minutes of reading, Bible verse memorization (King James), worksheets and more worksheets and more worksheets. If he wouldn't receive an Oscar, surely my wife and I would.

The last name was called, and my son wasn't included. I felt sick. I knew how hard he worked. I knew he deserved an Oscar. Maybe my wife or I had forgotten to sign and return one of a thousand notes his teacher had sent home. Maybe I didn't get in my required parent training hours (I didn't). Maybe this was my fault, I thought. I'm so busy.

I scanned the pews for other proud parents. And I made unjustified excuses. Many of these people are stay-at-home mommies and daddies, I rationalized. I work, and so does my wife. We can't stay at home and scrapbook and pay this tuition.

And then I got angry. I removed the camera from around my neck, the strap was beginning to strangle me. No one – other than my wife and I — probably even noticed that my son didn't receive an Oscar. In their minds, I assumed, he's an African American male. He's not supposed to receive an Oscar. After all, the ceremony was about academics, not basketball or break-dancing. Stupid . . . stupid, I know. I scolded myself for my vicious thoughts and for playing the race card.

The ceremony continued on, and my son's teacher, who was presenting the Oscars, sat down. Then another teacher took the stage. "And now we present our A students," she announced. "We present this award to the following children, who have maintained an A or an A+ average throughout the entire year."

My son's eyes lit up again. So did mine.

When they called his name, he floated through the air, as though on a magic carpet, and accepted his Oscar with such enthusiam, the performance deserved an aplause in and of itself.

Pictured above is his Oscar, but he received two trophies that day. One for his grades, the other for his memorization work. He gave one trophy to me, the other to my wife . . . and gave her a dollar to boot for "being such a good mom."


For those of you who followed my Super Secret personal, semi anonymous blog, I'm considering ginning it up again. My blog here has been getting off topic — with posts like this — since I let the other go dark.

Help! I need your opinion

I'd appreciate your opinion. I'm having trouble with one of my paintings. So I took a digital photo (which explains the ripples) and played around with it in Photoshop. But I still can't figure out which one works better. Don't diss me now. Writers and illustrators, a brotha needs your opinion. In case you can't tell the difference, on Example B, I've added lighting to the floor, to make look like the child is reading under, maybe, a lamp. I won't rework the actual painting until Thursday. Thanks in advance.

Example A:












Example B:

National Marrow Donor Awareness Campaign

These are my nieces, three of the bravest girls you'll ever meet. Their story is extraordinary. If you have a minute, check it out.

We're happy that Madison's transplant was successful. And were happy that a donor was found for Olivia, too. We're sad she'll have to miss Disneyland next month. We'll plan something next year.

Sunday tidbits

I've had a very productive week at home, completing paintings for Little Ron on a Big Mission. That's great, but it also means I've been away from my main gig at the newspaper. That worries me.

I love my career as a children's book illustrator, but I need my job at the newspaper. Although I've had a very fulfilling week, there's something creepy about about being away from the paper for so long — particularly at a time when newspapers have been laying off their editorial departments. I'm told art departments go first.

I'm off work again tomorrow. Then I'll work two days before I'm off again for the week. I love my new schedule, but I worry about how much of an impact I can make in the few hours I am there. According to my boss at the time (two years ago), I was the MVP of our department. Now, I wonder if they even notice me at all.

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By the end of this day, I will have completed Little Ron. Almost. The paintings are finished, but over the next few days, I'll need to fix inconsistencies and rework a few of the lesser successful paintings. Then there is the cover.

At Dutton — and possibly others, too — they ask that the cover concept be left until last. Once the art has been scanned and laid out with the text, we'll brainstorm ideas for the cover and any other spot art that may be needed.

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In the last few weeks, I've received negative feedback from several parents about my son's school. My son attends a private Christian school, that some — parents of children who don't attend the school — accuse of being too hard on children. They say the school expects too much and pushes children too hard. "They're like little reading machines over there," someone recently said to me, while another person compared the school to the military, because of the high level of discipline. But I ask, what is wrong with having high expectations of children? Especially when these children always meet or exceed expectations? And what is wrong with a classroom that has very few discipline problems?

The administrators at the school compare children's brains to muscles — the harder they are worked, the bigger and stronger they get. I think this is great.

I have three children; two are grown. I've tried it the other way. It didn't work as well.

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I received the sad news that my high school sweetheart and prom date died recently in a car accident. I'm stunned. And what's ironic is that I received the news from another high school sweetheart, both of whom had recently contacted me through MySpace.

5 Things I Wish I Learned In School

Amy of Bowllan's Blog tagged me with 5 Things I Wish I Learned In School. Considering that I only paid attention to art-related classes, I wish I'd learned everything else.

But that would be too easy an answer to the tag.

Patience is something that can't be taught. It's something you learn over time. I haven't learned this virtue. Standing in line. Waiting in traffic. My wife being late. Ahhh! I'm much too impatient.

I wish I'd attended an illustration school, maybe in New York. I've done pretty well for a self-trained illustrator. But sometimes I wonder where I'd be if I'd had formal training in the publishing city.

Life would be so much easier if I had a better grasp on my finances. It's not too late to learn, but now I'm too busy. In home economics, I wish they'd taught more about family finances, and less about making dashikis and pancakes.

I love watching political pundits battle it out on television. And I enjoy reading political blogs and cartoons. But don't ask me how government works. It wasn't until last year that I'd even heard of the term super delegate. I wish I'd learned more about civics and government. Same thing?

Books were introduced to me in grade school, of course. But I didn't notice them until way after I graduated high school. I wish I'd discovered Richard Wright or Langston Hughes or Gordon Parks when I was in grade school.

If you have something you wish you'd have learned in school, consider yourself tagged.

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Completely unrelated, so I understand if you don't have time to look. Excuse a proud dad. If you stick with the whole thing — about 3 minutes — you can see my son's new trick he performs over and over and over...

Painting in the dark; don't try this at home

This morning I awoke to storm warnings. While on the drive to my son's school, I could see dark clouds approaching from the south. Nickel-size hail was forecast, so I hurried home to clear the garage so I could park inside. That stole about an hour of my time. No sooner than I closed the garage door behind me, the storm hit. I got my brushes, turned off my computer and started to paint.

Thunder shook the house, lightening struck outside my window, and no sooner than I laid paint to paper, the electricity went out. I grabbed my camping flashlight and continued to paint. Once the storm passed, I painted to the light coming from the window.

When the electricity finally came back on, I realized that painting in the dark doesn't work so well. My colors were way off, bright like neon. So, it was back to the saturated rag, and reworking my colors, that were glowing in the dark. Sigh.

Workin' hard, but the end is near

"Find a job you love and you'll never work a day in your life." I think it was Confucius who said that.

Confucius is a damn lie.

I love, love, love illustrating children's books. But I'm working hard, hard, hard. I started painting Ron, a picture book for Dutton, this past January. And four months later, I'm down to the final four. The art is due to my publisher by the 25th (I've been granted a week extension.). The last few weeks are always the most stressful.

I feel really good about how the illustrations have turned out. At least today I do. Last week, I was depressed, thinking they were a total failure. They seemed too dark. The color pallet all wrong. The paper texture too rough. I wallowed in self pity, ashamed.

But that all changed. I continued to work them. Fixed problems. Adjusted colors. I shared them with a coworker, an artist who also uses the grasalies under painting technique. He liked the paintings just fine. And in a better lighting situation — the newsroom is better lit than my studio — they look completely different to me. They sing!

The colors are rich. My color pallet works. The paper texture is still a bit too rough for my taste, and the surface way too shiny (a result of glazing), but nothing a final coat of matte varnish won't fix (I'm using alkyds, so I'm hoping it will be OK to varnish immediately).

So I'm happy. Tired, achy, in bad need of next month's Disney vacation. But I'm happy.

My son and I tackle voice

Yes, okay, I said I wouldn't have time to blog this week. And I don't. But that statement went bust the day after I made it.

Last night, my son and I sat down to read a book together, one of several submissions sent for review at the Brown Bookshelf. I really enjoyed the story, as did he. But the language used in the book bothered him.

Throughout the story, the author used words like ain't, gonna and whadd'ya. He also used apostrophes to shorten words: Burnin,' fryin,' 'cause, 'ol.

Dialog included phrases like Whatcha makin' and Whaddya wanna make?

We couldn't get past a couple paragraphs without him interrupting our reading to correct the author's grammar or the character's English.

Halfway through the book, he asked me why the author was "talking like that."

Dang! Can't we just read the story?

I commended him on his good use of language, but also reminded him that he doesn't always speak perfect English himself. I explained to him that some people do use words like ain't and got and gonna, and that those people — like his dad — appreciate seeing their imperfect language used the literature they read. It's called voice, I told him. And it helps to define a character's personality, background, culture, while sometimes possibly helping the reader relate to that character.

He didn't seem understand (he was more interested in being right), so I decided to shelve that topic for another day.

Happy dancin' again

Because of the industry I work for, I can no longer discuss certain topics. I can't say why I'm happy dancing. But I'm dancing, N.C. :)

Painting to the Duke

I won't spend much time blogging this week. I'm taking the next four days off from work, hunkering down and painting, painting, painting. I'm in the final stretch of finishing up Little Ron on a Big Mission, a picture book for Dutton. I'm down to two weeks.

In preparation, however, to put me in the mood for my next book, Duke, I've turned off the talk shows. No Rush. No Boortz. I've unplugged CNN. And I'm playing a lot of this in the background:

Fearless writers and illustrators get silly at TLA

"Writers of the Purple Page"


Award winning writer/cartoonist/speaker David Davis visits TLA Dallas 2008 and interviews his writer illustrator friends, and talks a bit about his tenth humorous picture book, Texas Aesop's Fables.

I'm included in there somewhere, suffering from stage fright when he turned his camera on me. Check us out.

May Day! I'm stressed!

My kitchen has amassed a population of unwashed dishes, a crowd so large and raucous, neither my wife or I have had the nerve to challenge them.

Globs of dirty laundry snake a path from our bedroom upstairs to the laundry room below. Soiled socks mix with clean t-shirts. Dark colors mix with light. Camp gear, books, batteries, homework, tennis shoes, puzzle pieces everywhere.

My wife and I both are way too busy.

But that's only a portion of my stress. Today is May 1st. My publisher has requested to have the final paintings for Ron in May. For me, that means May 31. For them, that probably means today.

Dirty dishes. Unwashed laundry. 18 unfinished paintings. And no sleep. **exhale**

I'm stressed.

My wife, the storm predictor

Sunshine rained supreme yesterday at Camp Mabry, during the Cub Scout Adventure Day. But on the morning following the overnight camp, we were just plain rained out.

After the day’s events — some of which included bow and arrow shooting, fishing, and bike riding — clouds crept in and chased the sun away. Clouds so ominous, they seemed to confirm reports of a storm in the far distance.

Many families decided against camping and went home. But then the clouds pushed out to reveal a crystal clear sky. Five other families, plus ours, decided to chance it.

Before nightfall, I pitched the tent and we set up. After dark, we played a game of nighttime Frisbee. Soon, I had a small campfire going. The air overflowed with noises of camp: Squealing children, warbling insects, chattering leaves.

We grilled hotdogs, roasted marshmallows, made S'mores. My wife suggested that we sing songs, but my son and I were worn (Only hours before the Cub Scout event, we'd participated in a 5K family run.). It was my son who first said: "I'm tired; Let's go to bed." So we put out the campfire, made one last trip to the restroom, and turned in for the night. Faster than a thunderstorm could blow through, we dozed off to sleep.

A few hours later, I awoke to my wife nudging my ribs. She wanted to know why the sun wasn't shining. At first, I thought that, maybe, she was talking in her sleep. To some degree, I still wonder if she wasn't. I grabbed my cellphone to check the time, and then reminded her that, at 3 in the morning, the sun was busy shining on China, halfway around the world, to which I earned a little smack to the head.

I tried to go back to sleep, but couldn't. My wife was concerned about something. She was up and down, climbing in and out of her sleeping bag. She paced the floor, which, in an 8-by-8-foot space, was enough to wake even a hibernating bear.

Although I was fully awake, she bent down and nudged me again, wondering if I'd noticed how strong the wind was blowing. I hadn't. Finally she got dressed, unzipped the tent and went outside. When she returned a short time later, she warned that a storm was coming.

The air was cool and moist, and soft flashes of lightening illuminated our tent. In the distance, I heard the quiet rumble of thunder. I wasn't worried; That kind of thing happens often in Central Texas. The weather was teasing us. I buried myself inside my sleeping bag.

For a long while, my wife stood staring out of an opening in the tent, looking as though she was watching a ghost. “If she's afraid of a little rain,” I thought, “next time, us guys will leave her at home.” She closed the tent, adjusted my son’s sleeping bag, and then climbed back into hers. We both fell asleep.

The next voice I heard came a few hours later. It was the Scout Master in charge of the event. He was standing outside of our tent, passing along a message from park security. In the haze of my sleep, I only caught a few of his words: Storm, golf-ball-sized hail, evacuate. Immediately!

We scrambled like eggs to get dressed and gathered our belongings — sleeping bags, luggage, and an inflated, double-sized mattress. Then we darted through an open field and jumped into our van (It took me several trips; I refused to leave anything behind except for our tent.). In a convoy, we followed park security through a maze, past the military museum, to where we took cover inside a cafeteria.

The storm wasn't awful, though the experience scared my son. Rain beat down for about 20 minutes, and then we were shuffled back to the campground to collect our tents before the next round of storms.

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How does this relate to children's publishing? Well, it doesn't. But it does recall a camping picture book I've been working on for the past three years. A story weighted down with too much childhood nostalgia. Through this experience, I think I've found the direction my story needs to take.

April 26th is chock-full

This weekend is the Write in the Heart of Texas Spring Conference, given by The Austin SCBWI. It will feature a fabulous line-up of authors, illustrators, editors and agents. Unfortunately, I won't be there.

Procrastination is a son-of-a . . . well, you know.

As the registration deadline approached, April 26 began to fill up with family activities. Not that I mind, though; I'm still gonna have fun.

First thing Saturday morning, my family and I will run in the Texas Round-Up, a health and fitness initiative. My wife and I have been preparing for the race through a fitness program sponsored by the City of Austin and RunTex. Although there will be a family mile run, we are planning to do at least a 5K. At his school's Race For Education fund-raiser, my son ran 5 miles, so we figure he can run/walk 5K easily.

Immediately following the race, my son and I will spend the day getting our hands dirty — shooting BB guns, identifying wildlife, fishing — at The Thunderbird District's Trailblazer Adventure, held at Camp Maybry. And then, weather permitting, we'll pull out our tents and camp overnight!

Somewhere in there, we're supposed to fit in a wedding and birthday party, too, but somehow I don't think that's gonna happen.

Bummer that I'm gonna miss the conference, and double-bummer that won't be able to hang out with my SCBWI buddies. But somewhere in Lake Austin, there's a large mouth bass with my name on it, and I'm gonna spend the day trying to catch it.

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In other news: Congratulations to Varian Johnson! He's on the Path of the Righteous.

The book signing that almost didn't happen

It was Thursday morning, an hour before my signing with Lee & Low Books. I was in the parking garage of the Dallas Convention Center when I found myself with a huge problem: I didn't have enough money to pay for parking.

I knew when I entered the garage that I didn't have enough. A sign at the entrance clearly stated: "Event Parking $8.00, cash only." I had $4.00 and some pennies.

Driving slowly toward the attendant, I planned my next move. "Good morning," I said. Then I flashed her my saddest puppy-dog eyes. She was a sistah, maybe she'd help a brotha out. But she was cold as ice. "Eight dollars," she said in a foreign accent, not even looking at me.

I brandished my cash card, looking away from her as I held it out. "Did you read the sign?" she snapped. "Cash only."

As I sat there wondering what to do, I thought about some Hollywood movies, you know, the ones where the guy crashes the gate and shoots through the airport like he's running a 50-yard-dash. Maybe I . . . well, maybe not.

"I know this is not your problem," I said. "It's my problem. But I need to be at a book signing — I'm the signer — and I don't have $8.00. How can I fix this problem?" I asked. She looked at me as if to ask, "Book? What is a book?"

By that time, I was in a panic. I was due at my publisher's booth in little over an hour, but first, I had to drive back into downtown Dallas. I'd have to park, find an ATM machine, get back to the Convention Center, park again. Then I'd have to find my way to the registration area to get my badge, and then wind my way through the exhibitor's hall — a bustling maze. Booth number one-thousand-something!

"There's a cash machine inside of McDonald's, three blocks down the street." the attendant said. Then she opened the gate so that I could leave.

Problem number two: My cash card has two large rips down its center. It only works in certain machines — it's funny like that. Back in Austin, I know which machines to use and which ones to avoid. Dang! I knew I should'da got a new card a long time ago!

As I left the parking garage, I considered calling Jason, my publisher. I had his cell number. I'd call, explain to him that I'd made it OK, but that I was outside the Convention Center, short four dollars to park. Maybe he'd come outside, loan me some cash. No, I couldn't do that. Considering some of the problems I'd had earlier in the week, he'd think I was a bonafide, unadulterated dork.

When I reached McDonald's, I sped into the parking lot and screeched to a stop. There were maybe six parking spots for the entire restaurant, and they were all filled. A security guard, shaped like an African elephant, watched. He was making sure no one would park illegally. I drove up to him and said, "I just need to use the cash machine. Where can I park?"

"The parking lot is full," he responded.

Thanks for your insight, Einstein.

I drove back into traffic and circled the restaurant. When I noticed a spot had opened up, I slipped back into the lot, got out of my car and locked the door behind me. But then I paused. What if the card won't work? I need a plan B. "Are there any other cash machines in the area?" I asked the guard. "Other than the one inside the restaurant?"

"I don't know," he said, waving me away, his interest detained by a group of pretty, young girls who were loitering outside. I opened my car door, snatched open my suitcase and rummaged through the pockets of my jeans worn the day before. I found another dollar. But I was still short three.

I thought about the other night, when an old woman had approached me in a Walgreen's parking lot, asking for money. Begging, really. Her car had run out of gas, and she was trying to get home to San Antonio. I had been irritated with this woman asking me for money. Even though I'd given her a few dollars, I had looked her up and down. I had sized her up. Judged her. Who is this irresponsible, silly old woman? I thought. And there I was, two days later, in a position to beg for money. I said a prayer. Partly to ask for forgiveness, partly to make my signing in time.

Once inside McDonald's I opened my wallet and pulled out my cash card. I pieced it back together and swiped it through the machine. Nothing happened. The muscles at the nape of my neck reached up and grabbed the muscles at my temples. Together, they tightened around my head like a vice. I had a headache. I felt so stupid! My signing was in half an hour.

Suddenly, the machine came alive and asked for my four-digit pin. My card had worked! I could have kissed that machine were it not visibly filthy. Instead, I thanked God and punched in my digits. Once I received my cash, I shot back to the Convention Center faster than lightening. And made it to my signing fifteen minutes early.

Book signing at Texas Library Association

I had hoped to post a full report about my signing at TLA yesterday, but time won't allow. I had great fun signing my books with Lee & Low Books. The librarians weren't exactly bum-rushing our booth to get my autograph like, say, they were for Adam Rex, Kevin Henkes or Jarrett Krosoczka. But we had a steady flow of people. Most librarians who stopped and took the time to look at my books were very complimentary and purchased one.

The highlight of my day was being recognized by so many publishers as a blogger at The Brown Bookshelf. When I solicited various publishers for review copies of books to possibly feature, most were familiar with our name and initiative, and gladly offered books. Those who couldn't give away their only copies, took my contact info and promised to send books.

I was surprised at the number of election/political themed books being published. It's no wonder, I guess, considering the exciting presidential race going on. In just the short time I was there, I saw Grace For President, Otto Runs For President, Duck For President and LaRue for Mayor. What's up with LaRue?

Reading my last blog post, I realized it could have a dual and unintended meaning. When I said, "I'll be signing my books tomorrow morning and again in the afternoon. But tonight in my hotel room, I'll be working on Ron." Please know that Ron is the code name for a picture book I am painting. Nothing else.

Thanks to Miriam and Jason of Lee & Low Books for their warm hospitality, and especially for their patience (There's a story behind this story which I won't go in to). Also look for Lee & Low to introduce a new website soon!

My editor and art director reads my blog

I'm honored and thrilled — and maybe even a bit horrified — to learn that my peeps at Dutton actually read this blog. And they like it! There was a question concerning my blog-to-painting ratio, considering Ron is due soon. But all is good, I think.

I do blog a lot, and I write picture books, too. But when I'm blogging or writing, it's only because I'm at a point where I simply can't paint. I'm either waiting for a series of paintings to dry, or I'm tired of painting and need a break.

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I'm on the highway in a couple hours, headed for TLA Dallas. I'll be signing my books tomorrow morning and again in the afternoon. But tonight in my hotel room, I'll be working on Ron. Yes, I'm packing my paintings and brushes, my turpentine and reference materials. Instead of staying up late tonight watching CNN and Fox News, I'll paint . . . while listening to CNN and Fox News.

I got my new digital camera, so I'll post a visual report of TLA sometime soon! When I'm waiting for my paint to dry, of course. : )

Sunday tidbits

TLA
I've been so heavily into my paintings, I forgot all about The Texas Library Association Conference next week. On Thursday at 11:15 a.m., and again at 2:00 p.m., I will be autographing my books, Summer Sun Risin' and Black All Around! at the Lee & Low Books booth (#2049). If you're there, be sure to stop by. Say hello. Help me to look popular.

I never did create a Brown Bookshelf T-shirt as planned. I'd wanted to wear it on the exhibit floor, to advertise to librarians about our website and initiatives. No time for that now, but when I do get around to creating the T-shirts, I'll post an announcement over at The Brown Bookshelf.

Regretfully, I'll have to miss the children's book blogger's tea, hosted by Anastasia Suen. The tea is on Tuesday, but I won't arrive to the conference until Thursday. Bummer.

Bill
Last week, I received my copies of signed contracts (and partial advance) for Bill, a picture book that will publish with Lee & Low Books. For many reasons, I will not be the illustrator for this project. For one, my illustration style is stylized, playful, borderline cartoon-y. The story is not. The publisher and I both felt an edgier, grittier style would be more appropriate. In addition, I already have two picture books lined up following Ron.

My editor contacted my top two choices for illustrators, and were still awaiting feedback. I'll post updates soon.

Writing
I finished the first draft of another picture book. I'll share it with my crit group after at least one full rewrite. At this point, the story is too loose and my main character's personality needs to be better definition. I've been asking myself: What will she do? Characters are defined by what they do and how they respond to conflict.

I got a full week ahead!