Some passages from my journals about my good friend Robert Hill

Robert Hill was my second close friend to pass away in a very short period of time, and I've been looking through my old journals for stories I wrote down about both of them. I compiled a bit of a post with excerpts for each of them, and this one is for Robert—a sadly inadequate and incomplete collection as my journaling is scant at times, especially in these later years full of projects and not enough time. But I'm thankful for the memories I did write down, and I thought I'd share for anyone who's missing him.

Some commentary and explanations in italics before the entries. 

*

This took place at the home of Tom Spanbauer where I and some friends were in his Dangerous Writing workshop. The "outside group" I mention is a small writing group threesome of Steve Arndt, Kathleen Lane, and me, that we were talking about expanding, and which eventually became the Henry Writing Group (because we met at the Henry, across the street from Powell's). Diane and Dian are different people, not a typo. I honestly can't remember whether I had met Robert by now. It's the first mention of him in my journals.

Friday, February 22, 2008, 2:25 PM—Pages went well—rewrite passed—of course, Diane wasn't there. 

And outside, we were talking—Kathleen, Steve and me—about the outside group. She's spoken to Robert Hill, who's interested, and she wants to invite Dian.

Just a tiny snippet about when I started reading Robert Hill's first book When All Is Said and Done.

Thursday, February 28, 2008... 2-28-2008... nice—10:28 AM—Finished Now is the Hour yesterday morning and have started Robert Hill's book.

Lots of voice. I've already come across good humor and sadness and social issues.


This was a writing retreat the Henry Writers took together, and Robert used the time to work on a story he was writing for the book Stephen and I were producing, The Untold Gaze.
Monday, October 20, 2014, 4:05 PM—Lovely day-long writing retreat at the Tiny House. It was Liz, Kathleen, Robert, Sara and I, and the house was lovely. I spent most of the writing time up in the loft bedroom, which was so low you had to crawl across the floor to get to the bed, and the roof was a steep slant over your head. It felt cozy sitting on the bed with pillows and a window at my back. Sounds of frogs through that window. And geese. Geese were flying over constantly. At one point, I sort of stretched and craned my neck back and upside-down saw so many geese fly across the sky. Lovely sounds to write by. That and the occasional giggling of Robert just about directly below me in the great room. Giggling to himself about the piece he was writing for Stephen’s book. In the end he told me he was a little over the limit. “You wanted 600 words, right? Mine’s…” squinty-eyed face, “eleven hundred.”

Snippet from Henry Writing Group.

Wednesday, October 28, 2015, 9:41 AM—Laura surprised us all with the opening to a new book, and Kathleen surprised us with a piece from a whole book she’s written in a month and a half. Both were amazing. Robert with a gorgeous new early piece to his new book, which was very different and added so much to the story. Sara with an essay on rape, which was strong but which we were able to give her a lot of good feedback on. Which she’s writing for a submission to an anthology headed up by Roxane Gay. Dian with a great story she wrote in a garden in France. Liz with a rejection letter for her memoir that she wanted feedback on. It was a night of being enriched in the company of some of my favorite people. And inspired.

More writing group. The reference to "poeh-treh" is about a performance Stephen and I did at the Poe Show, but what I love about this entry is that it was the first time Robert saw copies of The Remnants, his second book, which Forest Avenue Press published and whose cover I was honored to design.

Wednesday, January 20, 2016, 2:20 PM—had Group last night to fill my soul up again. I read for the first time in months. It felt very pedestrian and not that interesting, but I just wanted to get them back on track with the reading and me back on track with bringing stuff in. All evening, Liz, Steve and Robert kept talking about “poeh-treh” and laughing and talking about how good we were. Liz said as soon as we finished performing, she stood up in applause. “And I hate standing ovations!” she said. Robert walked me to my car afterward and asked me where the inspiration for Lord and Lady Bungalow came from. So funny that it just popped out of our mouths while driving around, on the way to Cape Meers that early trip when we found Bayocean and didn’t get swept away by a tsunami. Laura brought the first copies of The Remnants, hot off the press. She gave Robert a copy of the Poets and Writers that has the piece on Forest Avenue Press and followed it up with pulling out six copies of the book and handing him one. The delight on his face. So fun to watch him look at the actual book for the first time. A couple times I caught him just sort of lightly petting the cover like it was a delicate bird. 

Then the wrap-up of Robert's Powell's book launch for The Remnants.
Friday, March 18, 2016, 10:24 AM—Well, Robert’s launch was a lovely night. Looks like there were at least 75 people. The party at Liz’ beforehand was very nice. Stephen and I met Wes at the call box, and that was a lovely surprise. There were maybe 25 people at the party, and then Group had the front row for the reading, which I think was nice. Stephen and me, Kathleen, Steve, Liz, Dian, Sara (Margaret was out sick but just found out she was one of the runners up for the PEN, which is amazing), Laura, of course, Norm. Stevan Allred. Brad came, which was nice. Jamie, sitting alone in back. Liz was the intro, which was fabulous, and Robert gave a lovely tribute to Tom, which I told him about in my letter. Robert had flowers and/or presents for folks he was thanking, and mine… I sat on the floor and opened it with Kathleen and Steve and inside… so clever. First I unwrapped what looked like crackers and I thought, OK, where’s the cheese. It wasn’t until I finished going through it that it occurred to me, and I said to Kathleen, no, this is just like in the book! Tea and saltines! He gave me two tea cups and saucers, tea and saltines. And a sprig of apple blossoms which—he searched for… what is it in the book… cherry blossoms? But this was a good substitute. He really had the crowd laughing as he read. Stevan likened it to Shakespeare, how at first, you’re a little lost in the language and then you click into it and it becomes this understood, beautiful language you ride, and I think it’s true—the laughter just built. 

Another snippet from writing group, this time on Zoom, with a mention of the next book Robert had been working on. (The "poor mouse" is something a crow left in our birdbath, if you must know.)
Wed, May 12, 2021 at 12:08 PM—I had Henry group, which was just Liz, Robert, Steve and me as Kathleen, who was supposed to join us at the beginning and then the end, couldn't get back on at the end. I only saw her for a moment as she was getting off (I was a little late because of the poor mouse). Robert read the end of his book, which was amazing, and Liz read the beginning of a new project. So it felt like a momentous meeting. We talked and talked about just the last few lines of Robert's book, and it felt like a privilege to do so. 

Finally, here are Robert's final words from the final email I got from him. I wanted to share them, not because he mentions reading the book I've been writing, but because I like to picture him there, sitting outside, just enjoying some coffee, and goofing around, beautifully, with words like always.

It's going to be 88 here today. It's glorious out. I'm sitting on the front porch with my coffee looking at a haze of sage pollen waft across the driveway just in my sight line to a cluster of daffodils across the road.

Bugs are buzzing, an owl is hooting, in the distance several dogs are engaged in an a cappella argument.

I have barely had any clarity to work on STUCK. Maybe 4 pages in the past 3 weeks? Ugh. But... I am looking forward to devoting a church of outdoor time today to diving into your book because it's so charming. And so you. And so therefore attention must be paid! Wait... Willy? Is that you? Are you home from Albany? The boys have a bone to pick with you! What? Lunch with the mayor of Providence? How... special. I made meatloaf for dinner. Digestion must be made.

Some passages from my journals about my good friend Mara

I recently lost a very close friend who I'd known since I was six and she was four. I started to poke through my old journals, the ones I'd transcribed to computer (which is far from all of them), where I could do a search of her name and see what I found. Most of what I found was nondescript, mentions of hanging out, vaguely-described good times. But I pulled out some passages that were more particular, going back through the years, that I thought I'd share for anyone who knew Mara. 

Some commentary and explanations in italics before some entries. Spelling and punctuational errors intact because at the start of this, I am eight.

*

I had a cassette tape and was getting various friends and family to sing and talk on it with me.

January 31, 1978—On my tape, Mara and I had made a martian story. Something happened & the tape speeded up. We were talking fast & high. It echoed. It sounded so neat!

I'm ashamed to share this one because Mara and I were playing a ditch 'em game from my sister Edina, and how mean is that? Also, apparently we were climbing around Mara's monkey bars with pillows on top of it... eek. But it was a very particular memory I have of being with her, just the two of us.
April 9, 1978—today Mara and I were trying to get away from edina, and we had an idea. it took a while But I got over mara's Fense. I let mara in the T bar had pillows on it and we got on it, and got the giggles. 

We were camping at a place called Campland, and they were shooting some sort of commercial. Friendly the Wolf was the place's mascot.

May 11, 1980—Today I got in another comercial. I was a background. We made a mound of sand for friendly the wolf to sit on. Shena, Heather, Tom, Edina, Mara, Ryan and I walked in the background while friendly the wolf talked. We went home. I watched video taped movies.

The "(s)" below is me describing a motion with the hands that looks like an S.

September 30, 1982—Edina's birthday. We went to the French Pantry for Edina's birthday. Alaine (a waitress) teaches sign language. She gave us name signs. Mine's an "E" (left hand) rubbing my right arm. (I like to make music). Edina is 2 "E"s signing "talk". Frankie is an "F" with the 3 last fingers chomping the thumb for Pac-Man. Heather is "H" (s) Shena is 2 "S"s playing a flute. Alaine's is an "A" dancing. Mara signs "Super Jew." 

October 16, 1982—We played our soap opera. You see, about a weak ago we made a soap opera. I'm Lisa Van Jua, a snob. Mara's my sister Andrea. Heather's Stephany Shore. Edina's her 16 year old sister Kathy Morgan. Shena is Jackie Benit. Frankie is Christopher Shena's son & Heather's adopted son. I'm a modle. It's a lot of fun!

The Butlers were/are Shena and Mara's good friends.
February 20, 1983—We went to a mission. Then we ate breakfast out. Then we went home. Noni had a big get-together, the Butlers came. I was so mad. Shena and Mara were acting all hot. I got to Special on Lady bug again. We had sundaes. 

May 29, 1983—We swam in the lake again. Today I lost one of my ear plugs in the water. Heather & Frankie made up a "Star Wars" presentation & after it we came home. Tonight, Mara & Heather spent the night. We swam in the pool. We watched part of "The Blue & the Grey", I turned it off & I went to sleap.

This entry really got to me because Mara's personality shines through so beautifully. It was a visit with a good friend Ian, who we hadn't really hung out with since his brother (my first best friend) had died a year before. (Colleen was a friend of the family and I guess Sean was her son. I don't remember him.)

Oct 4, 1984, 6:47 PM—Well, Colline brought Ian and Sean over this after noon. We (Shena, Mara, & I) saw them drive up in the van they've always had, as we walked home from school. Mara, instantly tore off her shoes and began to run toward our house and I followed close behind. Shena, however, stayed back abit. Ian got out of the van and it's true. He's almost as tall as I am. Mara gave him a big hug. I don't know why I didn't. I guess I was too scared to know what to do. Mara said a few words and started, with Shena, towards their house. We went in our house. Colline and Mom were talking and Ian and I just stood around for awhile. He seemed as scared as I was. But, then, we both began to loosen up. We played Sean a couple games of pin-ball. Ian got 500,00 on one game. Sal and Susan were over with Chandler. Then, we all began to play tag. It was Ian and me against all the kids. The boundaries were the whole house and yard and we captured them and put them in our "dungeon" It was like old times. Later, Mara came back up and she, Ian, and I talked in my room about old times and things. We talked about Big Bear and the hill behind his house and the tree house he has in his back yard and camping and playing zoo. I was really sad when he left. I think he's coming back on next Tuesday or something.

12/25/84 7:11 P.M.—Shena and Mara came by and we took a boat ride with Coco in which we sang songs and saved someone's volleyball. Now, they're gone and we're back at the McFerrin's lake house where we're spending the night.

There are a lot of years between my childhood and the millennium that I haven't transcribed for computer. Here, Mara was getting married and friends and family were making a quilt for her as a wedding gift, each person making one square.

Saturday, July 21, 2001, 6:49 am—I started painting background squares for Mara's quilt square yesterday. I have it laid out and am now onto the painting portion. I hope the thing doesn't look completely stupid. I'm using the story of Mara from our childhood, in which they had just moved in and she was going up and down the street asking if parents had any kids she could play with. I'm leaving Kirsten out and just doing a cartoon of Mara at an open door asking the question, with an inset, then, of an older Mara—because we could find no good childhood photos amongst Mom's stuff, nothing that didn't have a hand in front of the face, etc.

Thursday, July 26, 2001, 6:21 am—Last night, I finished up the square for Mara. I think it looks fine. The picture of her looks pretty good and I was able to use the light board to trace some lettering onto the cloth. I was afraid about that because you can't just draw and erase on cloth like you can on paper, so this worked out well.

 

Another jump forward. I feel like this might have been the first time we saw Mara's house when she and the boys moved in, here in Portland.

Tuesday, December 18, 2007, 2:41 PM—And then the evening was Stephen, Frank and me with Mara and the family at her house, a tour of her house and pizza, then Stephen home and Frank and I went off with them to the zoo for Zoo Lights. Asher and Boston were bouncing off the walls and it was so much fun. Rainy and wet but lovely lights all around and a train ride.

Lastly, an account of the Zoom surprise birthday party Shena and the boys arranged for Mara in 2020.
Thursday, 6-25-20 8:25 PM—The lovely, funny chaos of the surprise birthday party for Mara. 

I logged on about five minutes till. A few people on already, not Shena. Kirsten (formerly) Butler, which was cool and she said, "Hey, Gigi, do you remember me?" Let's see, the group ended up being Shena, Stephen and me, Peg, Boo, various Woodruffs I mostly know by name, Adam, Kirsten, Dave Lambert (who at first couldn't make his sound work and almost gave up), Michael, Heather, Molly and Ryan Silbernagel, and the boys, sometimes on their own devices and sometimes in the room with Mara. 

At first Mara was on a work call and Asher was doing all this reconnaissance, trying to get Mara off of work and on with us without giving away the secret. When she finally logged in and started to see people she burst into tears. She didn't have it on gallery view, so she kept discovering people one by one, which was cute, and calling out names and sometimes crying again. It was mostly total chaos and Stephen downstairs and I upstairs just sat and took it in. She kept saying funny things and making oopsy faces at the screen, which was cute. We sang the lamest, most halting, most flying-apart-at-the-seams Happy Birthday song ever. 

But she loved it and felt very loved. It was three thirty in the morning in Barcelona. Shena had big, white bulb lights running in an inverted V over her head. Heather made jokey comments about how dare Kirsten be so hot. When I said I thought David didn't have audio or whatever the ability to talk is, Mara made a joke about, oh good, David should shut up, and then Peg said that David had been the one who delivered the flowers and the cake. Shena was told that as leader of the meeting, she could mute people at will and there was joking about someone having his TV on. Someone had a gorgeous set of windchimes ringing here and there in the background. We were all on in the chaos for about an hour and it was sweet and funny. It was a nice, big group.

a moment in the day: stream

Evening, and I'm sitting on the futon bed upstairs with Nicholas, watching the live stream, on my phone, of the celebration of life for Darcelle XV at the Arlene Schnitzer Concert Hall. I hadn't meant to, didn't know there'd be a live stream, but I sat down to rest after helping Stephen move the furniture around in the living room downstairs, and glanced at my phone for a moment, and there it was, and so I clicked in.

The celebration is tiny in my hand, a little square on the screen, most of that square just the bright amber color of theater lights. A tiny figure in the center, a man giving reminiscences on stage.

Years back, when Portland was newish to me, my aunt Kathy was all about going to Darcelle's. I kind of loved that it became our family tradition, that for a while whenever someone came to visit from out of town, we'd go to Darcelle's. Kathy always getting us front-row seats and shoving our hands full of dollar bills, especially for when Darcelle came out in the assless chaps to sing "Rhinestone Cowboy."

Sometimes in the early part of the pandemic, I'd think, when all of this is done with, I'm telling Kathy we have to celebrate by going to Darcelle's again.

It's been just over a year, now, since Kathy's been gone.

I lay my head back against the wall and look up through the skylight to the block of evening light that hangs just over my head.

Stephen's voice from the bottom of the stairs, calling my name. I get up and go over to stand at the top and look down.

He says, "I had an idea."

He draws out the word idea. And the smile on his face is sheepish and hoping. He wants me to help him move the furniture again.

He tells me he thinks the table in the basement would fit perfectly in that one empty spot by the couch and if I wouldn't mind, just a little more...

I say, "Sure!" Somehow this tiny square of tribute on my phone feels too sacred to turn off or leave behind, so I take my phone with me. Down the stairs. Down into the basement, where we heft the table and carry it carefully up and out the back door, into the evening air, through the backyard gate and heading to the front of the house, the Portland Gay Men's Chorus singing from my back pocket.

Choir Boy at Portland Center Stage

On Friday, Stephen and I went to see a play for the first time since before the pandemic began. Gosh, how I've missed the live theater experience: the sets and lighting, the satisfaction of watching real bodies on stage, the feeling of laughing in a theater filled with laughter and applauding in the shared thunder of an audience.

The show was Choir Boy, and it's playing now at Portland Center Stage. It's the story of a handful of teens who sing in the venerated choir of an elite Black boarding school—and in particular Pharus, the group's star singer and choir leader. The play opens with Pharus, a junior, singing a solo at the commencement ceremony for the senior graduating class. His performance is interrupted by the homophobic taunts of Bobby, fellow choir boy and nephew of the school's headmaster. When, later, Pharus is called into the headmaster's office and admonished for getting distracted during the song, the boy refuses to rat out the guilty party out of loyalty to the schoolyard code that says you don't snitch on a classmate.

Written by Tarell Alvin McCraney, who wrote the play that became the film Moonlight, Choir Boy explores themes of race, class, sexuality, coming of age, striving for connection, and most of all, trying to hold onto one's pride of self.

Pharus starts out with plenty of that. He's confident, ambitious, conspicuously queer, effervescent. He's got a light inside and somehow, even in this all-boys school full of rules and expectations, he isn't afraid to put on the high beams. You get the sense he can't not shine as bright as he does. At first. Many coming of age stories are about a character starting small and growing, starting quiet and finding a voice. In Choir Boy we watch Pharus's already-present shine dip and dim against the shadows of events that threaten his sense of self.

Within this tension, though, and the creeping darkness, the show is funny and clever. And actually: infused with joy. Because of the music.

Drawing on gospel and spiritual music, including the traditional songs known as Negro Spirituals, the music in Choir Boy is wonderful, sung in gorgeous harmony, often a cappella, by Isaiah Reynolds (Pharus), Luther Brooks IV (Bobby), Gerrin Delane Mitchell (Junior, Bobby's sidekick), Delphon "DJ" Curtis Jr. (David, a bookish classmate who wants to become a priest), and Wildlin Pierrevil (AJ, Pharus's roommate). Every song made me euphoric. Even when the music was there to evoke less joyful feelings—melancholy, longing—the beauty of it still made me euphoric. I'd find myself sitting up straight in my seat, leaning forward, as if to get closer to it. At the end of one song, the man directly in front of me raised his arms and made jazz hands, or maybe praise hands, as the applause erupted. 

I liked the minimal set, the towering columns and brick-wall background that made you feel like you were inside the Charles R. Drew Prep School for Boys. When we were in the shower room (where the boys wardrobed in nothing but towels made for opportunities for both tension and vulnerability), they rolled in a big tiled half-wall structure to denote the shower. When we were in the dorm room shared by Pharus and AJ, they rolled in two beds, Pharus's decorated with warm white Christmas lights, maybe alluding to that don't-hide-it-under-a-bushel light of his character.

This dorm room is the scene of some of the most important moments in the show, exchanges between Pharus and his roommate AJ that open up Pharus's character and gift him with some of the understanding and connection he needs as that bushel comes down. 

Watching Choir Boy, you do notice that the source material could use just a little more meat on its bones—the other boys are drawn a bit broadly and the premise isn't new—but this is made up for by the transcendent joy of its music, and the deep meaning of the power and tradition of that music. With clever dialogue and the always-skilled stagecraft of Portland Center Stage, it's a thoroughly engaging and thought-provoking show. It was a great production to experience after my pandemic-induced three-year theater dry spell. 

And truly, I'd see it again just for the music.

And it occurs to me as I say that last thing: this isn't what I should be getting out of going to see Choir Boy. This statement comes from a place of privilege. Me as a white woman, sitting at the edge of my seat enjoying the euphoric rush of beautiful sound. This music was not created for my enjoyment. The play goes into some of its true importance—and it's not my place to whitesplain it—but if you're interested in learning more about the amazing music the play draws from, Portland Center Stage wrote a great article about it here. 

Or hold off on the article and save it for reading in your program from your theater seats, Choir Boy runs through May 14, and more information is here.

Photo captions:

1) L-R: Gerrin Delane Mitchell, Isaiah Reynolds, Luther Brooks IV, Wildlin Pierrevil, and Delphon "DJ" Curtis Jr. in “Choir Boy”; photo by Jingzi Zhao/courtesy of Portland Center Stage.

2) L-R: Luther Brooks IV, Gerrin Delane Mitchell, Isaiah Reynolds, and Delphon "DJ" Curtis Jr. in “Choir Boy”; photo by Jingzi Zhao/courtesy of Portland Center Stage.

Poster design by Nick Orr.

Three moments in three days: dream

In the dream, I'm walking out of the theater and into another large space, open, like a convention center or an airport, high ceilings. And coming toward me going the other way is Kathy. She looks the way she used to look except her hair is pure blond, no pink. She's waving hello to someone in the crowd around us, still coming at me but not like she notices me or not like she wants to see me. 

When she passes, I follow. "Kathy, I want to talk to you!" 

It's coming up on a year since she died, and both of those facts are unbelievable to me.

As I follow, the space around us draws wider and emptier, the people disappear. Nothing all around, just Kathy and me.

I don't know what I want to say to her when she turns. I ask her how she is. I ask for a hug. I ask if she's seen my dad.

"Oh yeah," she says. "He comes here, too."

***

Next night, I try to go there again. I lie in bed and picture the place, the high ceilings, the nothing all around. Try to dream my way back there, but it doesn't work.

***

Next night, I try to go there again. I lie in bed and picture the place, the high ceilings, the nothing all around. Try to dream my way back there, but it doesn't work.

Book cover: Soul Jar

Soul Jar, the next Forest Avenue Press anthology, is a collection of science fiction and fantasy stories written by disabled authors. When I first started mulling cover concepts, I was a little stymied by the question of how best to depict science fiction and fantasy and disability all in one effective image. Disability is a huge, varied subject, and it felt wrong somehow to squeeze it all down into the single object of, say, a wheelchair or a container of pills or a hearing aid. And what about all the invisible disabilities that are also very real? Publisher Laura Stanfill said, don't try to find a simplified visual symbol; disability will be front and center in the subtitle. Instead, she suggested that I think on the stories and find my imagery there, as I did with the giant octopus on the cover of City of Weird.

She sent me a list of some possibilities that stood out to her. A cranberry bog monster. A pizza delivery guy on Mars. A "geyser pterosaur" that squirts great streams of water from its mouth. A girl born in the sea.

I was particularly intrigued with the sea girl whose story is lush and melancholy and magical. And the geyser pterosaur, whose story is light and clever. I spent some time building a pterosaur, which I thought I could eventually add shading and detail to if I liked how it was working...

...but it wasn't working. Although I share this image of the creature in progress, mostly because I'm happy with the tongue.

I moved on to the sea girl, playing with moody greens and hints of yellow. My idea was a blurred-out seascape background overlaid with all the text: title, subtitle, editor name, blurb. For the title, I found a font I liked and turned it into an outline you could see the sea through, then adjusted the J to add the swirl. My hope was that those text elements would be what you see first, and then in the next second you'd discover that in that seascape behind hides the woman.

But at the same time, when I was doing my image search for seascapes I liked, I found this great picture of a jar with lights coming up out of it.

Which led me down another concepting rabbit hole. The question of whether or not, and how, to use the object of the jar from the title in the actual imagery was something I mulled a lot. The term soul jar appears in one of the stories as a metaphor, but Laura told me, "to me it speaks of the body and how we are and aren’t our bodies." I liked that a lot. And for me, soul jar also spoke of the head, specifically—the jar, the head; the soul, imagination. I pictured that jar sitting on the cover but instead of the blurred-out spheres of light rising from it: a dragon. The ultimate symbol of fantasy.

I started by taking the picture of the jar, adjusting the color, and using Photoshop's smudge tool to push the lights around so that it looked kind of... firelike.

Then I built a stylized dragon in Illustrator and used the firelike blob to create a clipping mask.

I went back to Photoshop and did some cutting and pasting and painting and erasing and feathering and blurring until it began to look more and more like a rising, glowing, fiery...

...phantom chicken?

The feather (no pun intended) effect and blurring I was using to soften edges and make this dragon look less chunky and more ethereal (and okay, maybe my original drawing?) made the head look way less dragony than I'd been hoping. And I also started to think: Why did I not make this dragon with its mouth more open? Why did I not make this dragon with its head up? It’s bursting out of the jar, bursting into life; why is it doing it so... casually?

I spent a dragon's age tinkering with that head to try to get it right. Fighting with the effects I needed to keep it looking magical. Work, work work—now it's a chicken. Work, work work—now it's a pig. 

When I had a cover sample I liked...

...I sent it, and the sea girl, and the pterodon for good measure, to Laura. (Well, there were a couple versions of some of these, but who's counting?) Laura chose the ones she thought were working best to send to editor Annie Carl for a look.

Annie's reaction made me happy: "I think I love the dragon and mermaid equally!!! The green is so pretty. But I have a soft spot for dragons! I’d love to have a dragon cover!"

She seemed to lean toward sea girl at first. Then she showed the samples to some friends and family for their thoughts, and consensus drifted toward the dragon, particularly because of the jar. One beta tester noted that the dragon's teeth might be too scary for readers—granted that tester was Annie's six-year-old son. I started getting excited for the dragon jar cover, but then Annie said: "I personally would like the dragon to look more dragon-like, less dinosaur."

Argh! I had a chicken, then I had a pig, now I had a dinosaur. I swear I can make a dragon. 

One of the difficult things about tinkering with that dragon head was the soft edges and, particularly, the blur effect behind it. It was very difficult to make any changes without messing that up, making it look very cut-and-paste and not smooth at all.

While considering all this, I went back to the sea girl and thought, why don't I just add a jar?

That same jar from the dragon jar cover worked well.

Happily, Laura and Annie liked this addition. Laura shared Annie's latest comments:

"So now I’m torn because I love both the dragon/dino and the underwater for different reasons. I think the underwater one is more meditative and hints at something a bit sinister. While the dragon one is obvious about the fantasy elements and potential for sinister stories. It’s also more playful and hints at the humor in the anthology."

Laura said maybe I could add one playful element to the sea girl cover. "I’m thinking of how Richard Scarry books had animals fishing and they always caught an old wet boot. Something like the boot. Just amid the scene, nestled in, to say STORY THIS WAY."

Ah ha. The boot made me wonder about a fishing hook hanging in the water. When I mentioned that to Laura, she came back with a frog. Orchids. A golden ring. All elements from different stories.

I tried adding a swimming frog because it seemed the funniest, but then, as I was sending this latest sample off to Laura, I thought, no. Not frog. You know what this cover needs. A dragon.

No, really, I could do it. I just had to start over and create a completely new dragon. 

I started with shapes and lines.

And I built my details on top of it, using mostly blobby shapes to get the sense of the lizardy-bumpy skin dragons have. I knew I could go high-contrast on my details because in the end this dragon was going to be blurred out and softened a lot, so I'd need sharp details to keep everything from disappearing.

It wasn't an old, wet boot, but I hoped it would do.

With some added bubbles and tweaks to the text, I sent along another sample to Laura. She was happy with it and sent it along to Annie and then sent back Annie's thoughts:

"I. LOVE. IT! This is it! This is the cover!!"

I was thrilled. I'd come full circle with jar and dragon, and had given Annie what she'd wanted, all in one.

Soul Jar will be out on October 17, 2023. More information is here. And here's a short, and fitting excerpt. From "The Rising Currents of Ocean Fire in My Blood" by Bethy Wernert.

My body adapts. Scales become flesh. Gills become lungs. Fins become limbs. Transforming, I grow into girlhood. My coral-strung hair deepens into the earthen volcanic red of lava, and my algae-green eyes become the emerald of moss.

I look just like them. Humans. The only remnants of my squamous body is the slight, coruscating hue my skin reflects in the crescent of the Harvest Moon.

My mother calls me “a gift from the ocean,” her “oyster,” her “pearl.” And like a pearl, she must keep me safe. Safe from the cavernous mouths of those hungry enough to eat mermaids.

She locks me in an aquarium. A large room painted the abyssal blue of the ocean. In the corner of the room is a dresser, the pink hue of anemones. In the other corner sits a simple wooden bed, seaweed green. From the ceiling hangs a mobile, dangling carved shards of mother-of-pearl and glass figurines composed of various sea creatures. A dolphin, a whale, a sea turtle, an octopus, a fish, a squid, a sea star. All dangling precariously on strings.

I spend hours wading through this room. Wandering and exploring its individual nooks and crevices. But it feels too small.

Contained.

Book Cover: Mythwakers: The Minotaur

One of the funnest projects I've had lately has been for Kate Ristau's new series Mythwakers. 

Anyone who knows Kate or reads Kate knows that any project having to do with Kate is going to be fun. Like her graphic novel Wylde Wings (with artist Brian W. Parker of Believe in Wonder Publishing). She hired me to basically be her last set of eyes on the interiors of the book, making sure it looked as good as it could look, and even being just that tiny part of that project, I felt blessed... blessed with fun. 

Going through that book, I was so drawn into the story and the voice, not to mention the fabulous artwork by the actually magical (no, I'm pretty sure he is) Brian W. Parker. It made me want, more than ever, to be able to get my own hands into a Kate book—and then abracadabra, it happened!

I love the concept behind Mythwakers. It's a series of books that teach kids (grades 3-5) all about mythology, through the point of view of its characters. The first in the series spotlights the minotaur. It's Asterion himself, telling his story from his own point of view. How fun is that? 

Designing for a series is a very particular experience. Book cover design is about puzzling—taking all the elements (title, subtitle, author name, blurb, relevant imagery, genre, tone) and fitting them together perfectly—but with a series, you're building something that will live beyond the initial book. That's a whole separate kind of puzzling.

Now, I should mention that Kate Ristau, along with being fun, is a person who knows a heck of a lot about not only writing but creating, concepting, designing—really, all the aspects of putting together a really good book. So she came to me with clear ideas of what she wanted. She had comp titles for me (books that are comparable to hers), ideas on color, thoughts on layout... she even made me some quick sketches to show what she was thinking.

I loved her ideas of the scrollwork connecting things together. And then I started thinking about the idea of Mythwakers. How best to portray the idea of myths waking. Coming up out of sleep. Bursting back to life. I pictured the magic of myth coming up out of an open book.

Really, once I'd spent some time thinking it through, the visual concept for Mythwakers burst out much like that mythly magic bursting out from the book: quickly, happily, and fairly fully formed. Kind of like Athena bursting from the head of Zeus, but that's a different myth. 

Usually I send more than one sample-in-progress, but I was so happy with what I'd come up with that I sent that single sample Kate's way. And she really liked it too. Then we made one big change. From a book to a scroll, which brings an element of antiquity into the design. I sent Kate three versions of this for her to choose from.

She chose her favorite, and we had our cover!

The Kickstarter Pre-Order for Mythwakers: The Minotaur launches today, November 1st, and goes until November 17th. There are lots of fantastic rewards too—including, I'm told, a Minotaur meeting! If you want to check it out and even help bring this book to life, you can find that here.

More info on Kate and all her books is here.

And here's an excerpt!

*

Hi! My name is Asterion! I am a minotaur. You may recognize me from such books as Clockbreakers by Kate Ristau, or from old-timey poems and epic stories written by guys like Ovid and Plutarch. Those authors got some things right, but they got more than a few things wrong, and I’m here to set the historical record straight.

 

My life is pretty a-maze-ing. Get it? 

 

That joke never gets old, even after all these years. I mean, you could almost get lost in it. 

 

Like a maze. 

 

Moving on, I am so glad you are here. I am a Mythwaker — a legendary character from an ancient myth that has come to define an entire generation. What? You don’t know what a myth is? You are totally going to love this. Pull up a chair, get comfortable, and we’ll explore myths, mazes, and most importantly: me.

Myths

A lot of people use myth to mean a fake story. That’s one meaning of the word myth, but the kind of myths I am talking about are mythology — the foundational narratives, or stories, of a particular culture. 

 

Sorry. I used a lot of big words there. All those centuries trapped in the labyrinth were SUPER BORING, so I read a lot of scrolls. 

 

Back to myths — just think of them as the important beginning stories of a group of people. 

 

The group of people — or culture — that we will be talking about today is the Greeks, and a little bit about those Minoan dudes too.

 

Here’s an important thing for you to know: people argue a lot about my story. Some people think it happened. Other people think it didn’t. Some people think Theseus was a hero, while smart people know that he is a ding-dong.

 

That’s the thing about myths — they are around for a long time, passed down from one person to the next, so not all the versions are the same. Think about if your best friend told you a story, which you turned around and told your grandma. Would you tell the same exact story your friend told you to your kind, gentle grandmother? Would you keep all the bloody parts or would you clean things up a bit? You would probably make a few changes, right? Most of us do, and that is why myths are never told the same way twice.

Best friend story, now featuring:

•   Blood and guts!

•   Nasty villains!

•   Mean kids! 

•   Burps and farts!

•   Tacos!

Grandma story, politely exploring:

•   Talking animals.

•   Snuggly kittens.

•   Flowers and smiles.

•   Five guys named Alfred.

•   Hard candy.

Stories change depending on who is telling them and who is listening to them. If you’re talking to your best friend, you might be shouting about fiery salsa and guacamole. If you are sweetly sitting beside your grandma, you could be whispering about butterscotch and rainbows. 

 

That’s the thing about myths: the audience matters. 

 

How we remember myths has a lot to do with who was telling the story and who was listening. The stories were constantly changing, but the ones that hung around were the ones that people remembered. They appealed to the culture. They mattered to the listeners. In this way, the audience and the storytellers can change myths for the good, for the bad, and for the tacos.