Dear Agent...

I've been submitting to agents and trying to figure out why it feels so different from submitting to publishers.

I think it's because it feels like you're trying to get someone to be your friend.

Dear Agent,

I'm a great person and fairly brilliant. Believe me, I know what I'm talking about. My mom thinks so, too! Should you become my agent, I'll send you the best chocolates daily. I've been specializing in chocolate for the past forty years, so I know which ones are the most delicious. Believe me, I know what I'm talking about.

Your new best friend,
Me!

Maybe that's the letter I should be sending out (along with this endearing painting)

The process has me thinking of a silly poem I wrote awhile ago, of which I believe I shall print an excerpt here now (cue the schmaltzy background music)

Please consider my book,
(in your slush pile, unread.)
I’d like to get it published
some time before I’m dead.

Ever feel like that, too?

Now That's Just Silly

Who wants to read a blog about the weather? Not me. Not you. And certainly not me.

But, gee, it's awful hot lately. You forget what it's like in the dead of winter and you're dying for summer to hurry up and get here. (and now I can hardly remember winter. It's not that cold, is it? I mean, you can always bundle up)

It's so hot my brain is bubbling in my overheated brain fluid inside my whatchamacallit. Hard to think, is what I'm saying.

So I figured it's time for something that's just plain silly.

And a cat in boots reading Puss in Boots while waiting for the D train is pretty darn silly.

Got something silly to share?

Go ahead. Make my day!

An Italian Journey

This is from 1999 and I think I was looking at Lucian Freud alot. I was also living in Brooklyn and visiting the Metropolitan Museum of Art, The Brooklyn Museum of Art, MOMA, all those amazing places that now seem mega-miles away.

I was probably ten years old or younger the first time I visited the Met. How lucky I was to see all those paintings by Van Gogh, Degas, Monet, El Greco, Matisse, and on and on and on. I remember seeing a Monet from across the room, how it glowed! Of course I wanted to be an artist. I wanted to make something that beautiful.

The good news is I'll be in NY in August for a visit. I will visit as many museums as I can and try to absorb it all. I just googled The Met and here's one of the exhibitions that will be up while I'm in NY:

An Italian Journey: Drawings from the Tobey Collection, Correggio to Tiepolo

Yeh, baby!

I'll be taking my Italian journey. I guess it's been my Italian journey all along.

Yes I Can!

Someone recently hired me to do this illustration. She saw my other work, she visited my website, she liked what she saw, we met and clicked right away. She wanted a mermaid and sea creatures. I love mermaids and the ocean. Perfect subjects for watercolor, which I love. All good.

So where did that voice come from that kept telling me I couldn't do it? My parents always encouraged me. I've always been told by teachers, mentors and peers that I'm a good artist. My art has been exhibited in a bunch of art shows (in NYC!), I've sold a bunch of paintings, I've worked as a professional illustrator before. So where did that voice come from?

I know you all know what I'm talking about. Because I've read about it before. From writers and artists much more successful than myself.

But it makes me mad. Does it make you mad?

Because I do believe in myself and my work. And I do love this finished illustration. But I also hear some little part of myself telling myself, 'you got lucky this time, but it probably won't happen again."

It's not luck! It's years of hard work. And talent. And passion. Yes I Can!

Could it be that we need to hear that voice to spur us forward? Nah, I don't believe that. I think I could have worked as well (or better!) if the voice was saying, "You're a great artist! Trust yourself! Keep going!" Actually, I did hear that, too. The voices were going back and forth in my head. It was pretty annoying. Listening to a Harry Potter audiobook helped a little.

Will I stop hearing the voice of negativity once I've illustrated a picture book for a major publishing house. Or five? Ten?

Those of you who are out there already, writers and illustrators, with several published books to your name, tell me, does it go away?

Self-Portrait As An Illustrator

I received my BFA in Illustration in 1985. Then moved to NYC and took classes at the Art Students League of NY with Marshall Glasier, a very brilliant and talented artist who did not see illustration as art.

Not to scandalize all my illustrator friends, whom I admire and respect, but I understood his point. Art is where you can make anything you want in any way you want. Illustrators work within parameters: of the text or the concept or whatever your client is looking for. Of course lots of amazing art happens within those parameters (Beatrix Potter! William Steig!) But there is a difference.

I gave up on being an illustrator so I could be a 'real' artist. I painted in the lonesomeness of my studio, which was usually just a corner of my bedroom. I took lots more classes. Did alot of figure drawing and self-portraits. Morphed into an abstract painter. And had a kid.

And rediscovered picture books. Drew my kid. Decided I'd like to get paid for what I do well (instead of working as a secretary, teacher's aide, jeweler's assistant, and on and on) So I bought a new set of rapidographs (and they did look beautiful to my eyes) and put together a portfolio. Starting to get some work. Featured on the wonderful Pen & Palette. Have several illustrations in the SCBWI Bulletin.

So what am I now? A painter who is delving into illustration? An illustrator who used to be an abstract painter? A little bit of both, I guess. I have to admit, I do miss dripping and throwing paint onto canvas (I suppose I could do that in my illustrations, but it's not the same-- art serves its own purpose, unlike illustration)

You might disagree with me. That happens sometimes. You may believe there is no difference between fine art and illustration. I think there is a difference-- for example, most illustrators I know who've been working for a good number of years and have talent, get paid for what they do, at least sometimes. Unlike most of the painters I know.

So go ahead and tell me why I'm wrong, if you want. Or you can just enjoy the picture.

Why I Love My Cat

There were many adorable kittens, tabby and orange and black, at the shelter that day. Myrtle was three years old. Not what you'd call a beautiful cat, with a coat we didn't know what to call (somebody suggested 'brindle' which does not sound very nice)

She did not say a word. Just looked at me with these big eyes that said, "I do not want to be here. Take me home and I promise I'll be a very good cat."

Myrtle has been true to her word. She's cuddly and sweet, sleeps with us and curls in your lap when you call. I think she even knows her name (unlike some cats I know!) She lets Madeline pick her up and carry her around the house. And she never says, "Hey, Constance, have you heard from any agents or editors yet?"

I know I'm not the first to say this, but I could learn alot from Myrtle. How to laze around. How to do some lovely stretches (even down dog!) How to look at people with big irresistible eyes so they'll take you home and feed you.

What have you learned from your cat (or dog, if you're that kind of person?)

Why I Love Mermaids

I love the ocean. I grew up on Long Island and going to the beach has always been my favorite thing to do. Jones Beach, Brighton Beach, Coney Island and all the lovely (cold) beaches in San Francisco. I miss the ocean, now that we live in the mountains in Asheville.

Maybe I was a mermaid in a former life. Communing with the dolphins. Wearing a shell and seaweed bra. Shooting through the waves like a non-human cannonball.

When I was little, I had a book of The Little Mermaid with one of those covers where the mermaid changed as you tilted the book one way, then the other, then the other way, then back again. Which I spent alot of time in a mermaid-induced hypnotic trance doing. Plus it had ridges to run your fingers over.

So now I've written a tween novel about a girl who becomes a mermaid against her will. My character is her own person. What? Of course, she's not me. I was never a mermaid. Not in this life, anyway.

A friend asked me which Disney princess I wanted to be when I was little. Why do I hardly remember any of those movies (and why don't any of those princesses have noses?) Maybe because we hardly ever went to the movies (too expensive) We went to the beach (free) Hooray for my childhood!

And, of course, The Little Disney Mermaid came out when I was all grown up. And even now, I don't want to be her. I want to be Hans Christian Andersen's Little Mermaid, beautiful and tragic and turned to sea foam in the end.

So what kind of princess are you?