Work in Progress - Submerged

And now for another trade I love; art! :D This piece is totally and completely inspired by the work of Cory Godbey of http://lightnightrains.blogspot.com/ (amazingamazingamazing). I wanted to try to emulate his style of color, which consists of LOTS of different layers, sort of thusly;

pencil sketch
watercolor texture sketch
computer color
make it awesome

Mine is (so very obviously) no where close to his, but I'm going to pretend that's because it's also no where close to done. So here it is so far.

 Mehhhh. It needs so much more work. I want the colors to be a lot more intense, but I'm having trouble figuring out how to layer the textures without totally muting everything else. Oh Photoshop, why dost thou hate me?

The Back Porch (#11)

Wow. So the whole point of these exercises is (I think) to consecutively describe something, and also prove that I can stick with it. 'Cus sticking with it is pretty essential for writing a book . . . which I'm kind of trying to do. XD Oh well. Better late then never!
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I am trapped in a cold square. In front of me is a thin, clear, hard material that allows me to see what is outside. Half of the clear material has some sort of criss-crossing screen in front of it, while the other side is completely clear. This too is square-shaped (rectangular, rather), all straight lines. Just on the other side there is a large square stone projecting outwards. It has a rough texture, with both light and dark patches. It is a rather neutral, nondescript color, ranging in value from light beige to a deep purplish-green.

The Back Porch (#10)

   The sun was out, and there was much to be thankful for. The bushes were thankful for those golden rays which inspired them to grow and create food for themselves, their leaves still green and young. The firey banners of the trees waved above the heads of the bushes, thankful for the cool breeze which sent them dancing. The sky was a brilliant, rich blue, thankful that it was unblanketed and clear.
  The porch relaxed in the shade, thankful for such a beautiful day. No rain to pound and torment it. No frost or snow to coat its rusty railings. The weather was really quite perfect, and the porch fully intended to enjoy every minute of it by napping the day away in blissful contentment.
   On the porch there was a little rosemary bush sitting in a little black plastic pot which nested in a bright yellow ceramic bowl. The rosemary bush was incredibly grateful. It had lately housed two sad little succulents in its dirt, as they had no other place to grow. The succulents were not big drinkers, and the rosemary bush had been feeling the drought for quite some time. Just now, however, the Water Giver had decided to remove the smallest (and most likely to survive) of the succulents into its own little spot of dirt, and had thoroughly watered the rosemary bush and set it outside. Its roots were in ecstasy. It's thin, sharp-bladed leaves' senses were dull from thirst, but soon would perk up and realize that the sun was out and would do some drinking in of their own.
   The only unthankful one in the whole place was the other succulent. It slouched grumpily against the side of the rosemary's black pot, thoroughly unhappy at the sun, the breeze, the water that had just been poured over its roots, and at life in general. It tended to be silent in its peevishness, however, and so the rosemary bush payed it no mind. Bushes always tend to be optimistic, and this one was no exception. It was going to enjoy this day completely, without distraction.

The Back Porch (#9)

   The porch hung off the side of the building like a giant Stone Troll, the iron railing crowning its flat head. It held perfectly still. Stone Trolls are capable of incredible feats of stillness, and are often mistaken for badly-sculpted statues if stumbled upon by the unwary. The porch could pretend, and could certainly hold just as still and be just as quiet.
   Not far away crouched an electrical box for the Transit System. It was on to the porch's game, and was watching it intently. It was like a staring contest, if both contestants were eyeless, square, and made of some nonporous material. The electrical box had been painted a greenish aqua color, back when that particular shade was popular among utility boxes. Now the box looked dated and rusty, but he was well on top of his game. Not one flicker or fidget from the porch would escape his notice.
   Unknown to both, the porch railing had ideas of its own. Too long had it perched on the cement square of the porch. Too long had it gone unrecognized, scoffed at for its utilitarian design and chipped, rusting paint. It would act soon, very soon - the only thing it waited for was a hapless Two Leg to come by and lean on it, once again without a "Please" or "By your leave", or even a "Thank you very much, you well-constructed and particularly handsome railing". Oh yes. Its time to fly would soon come. But for now it would wait, biding its time.

The Back Porch (#8)

Once again, this is an exercise from www.ndwilson.com, on his blog. It's been an interesting challenge so far!
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The sky is subtelly changing colors this morning, it's mind undecided, at first pouring grey sledge over everything, and then drowning the world in blue. For now, the sky is grey, and everything I see is tinged with grey as well. The back porch, splattered and pockmarked, already a grey hardened mash of stone, changes as well. When the sky is blue, or when the sun is out, the porch is grey. When the sky is grey, the porch takes a strange tannish hue. It is a rainbow of muted colors. The are dark reds, rusted oranges, drab yellows, deep purples, and underneath it all, the ubiquitous pale and indiscriminate color of concrete, currently a sort of beige color.
  The iron railings are also tainted with this riot of psychedelica; rusted red, tinges of green, blue reflected from the heavens, grey where the black paint has been bleached and worn away.
  Beyond the back porch, there is a sea of green. Deep, rich, waxy greens. Pale, sickly, yellowing greens. Purple and red-tinged greens. Leaves that have abandoned green all together and turned a bright, sunny yellow or a happy orange-red. The ground is littered with their many-colored corpses.
  And the sky. An impenetrable, flat, unmottled, downy grey. If it were to let the sun out from behind its smothering blankets, how the colors would be set on fire!

The Back Porch (#7)

It is a cool day, with pale light and a strong breeze. The topmost branches of the trees are set to dancing, and leaves drift to the ground as they are shaken from their perches.
  The sun is drifting behind clouds, but a stronger yellow light is beginning to touch the bushes, strengthening the leaves, warming the air. It does them good, and they are happier for it.
  Underneath the bushes, hidden by waxy green leaves and bare, woody vines, there is a fence. It lurks in the shadows, it's metal links almost invisible against the pattern of fallen leaves on the ground behind it. Deeper in behind the fence, there appears to be free space, perhaps enough one might walk, only a little hunched over. 
    Further still, beyond the other side of the bushes, something pale can be seen. The leaves and branches are so many and so close together that whatever it is cannot be quite discerned. It is a very light, whitish, tannish color, compared with the deep green through which it peers - perhaps of new concrete. Or perhaps it is a stretch of dirt, and the gleaming line that I can spy is the railroad tracks whose lone trafficker is the cause of many a tiny quake in our small apartment. The rumblings can be heard and felt no matter where you move to. Now the track is silent, and if that is what I can see through the leaves, it beckons. What would it be like to climb over that chain-link fence, duck under the bushes and between the tree trunks, and emerge on a slight incline, train tracks stretching to forever in either direction?
  And if I were to choose left or right, and began to walk, where would I end up?

The Back Porch (#6)

   A gray curtain has been drawn over the world.  The sky is flat and cold, a pale stone ceiling. Even the bright colors of the trees are dimmed.
  The concrete slab juts out from the back of our apartment, a cold and lifeless extension of the warm room within, separated by thin sheets of sliding glass. The porch looks almost tawny in the clouded morning, spotted and marred with time. The railing strides around the perimeter, stolid and black in spite of the green and red seeping up from the concrete onto the iron. The porch is fenced in, but empty, guarding nothing, keeping no one in or out. Even the tiny tree that had adorned it in the summer has moved indoors to a warmer climate.
   Beyond the porch, the bushes are still. There is a slight stirring in the upper branches of the trees, a momentary fidget as they wait for the clouds to unleash or bestow whatever they have stored behind their impenetrable wall. The red of the creeping vines is muted, the riotous oranges and yellows in the trees seeming almost brown, their glow stolen from them . The sun is locked behind thick bars, beating uselessly against the backs of the clouds, warming them but not the earth.
   There is no stirring of bird today, no flashing tail of a squirrel darting from branch to branch. All is still. All is stifled, quieted, blanketed with chill air and gray light. All is asleep.

The Back Porch (#5)

   Autumn, that jolly arsonist, has set fire to the leaves at last. The red and orange flames flicker in the treetops above the resistant bushes. It is a slow-burning flame, but in the end each branch will be bare, the foot of each tree littered with the brown ashes of the summer.
   The back porch knows nothing of the colorful drama unfolding before it. The cement is cool, rough, mottled by pounding rain and creeping algae. The black iron railing is stalwart, unmoving against a backdrop of riotous green. The sun has burst forth, joining in the attempt to set alight everything it can reach. Even trees which Autumn has not yet touched are caught by the sun-flames. The porch is impassive, sleeping in cool shadow, the blue sky bouncing off the shiny black railings.
   "The flames cannot touch me," it thinks sleepily. "I have no leaves to set afire. I dwell on the lee side of a large house. I am safe."
   The sun burns its way ever closer.
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Mehh. This is supposed to be longer, but I feel like that's an appropriate ending. Is that lazy of me?

The Back Porch (#4)

   The back porch glistens in the gray light of the morning. The rough concrete is smoothed over by a thin sheet of water, the rain bringing out deeper hues than the sun can dream of. Green tinges the edges of the concrete slab, yearning to throw out fuzzy arms and spread its mossy way from railing to railing.
   The rain is light, but steady, collecting pearl-like under the railings, waiting to gather enough friends together to break grip with the dark metal and fall once again.
   Beyond the railing, the bushes wave their hands, excited to receive the heavenly drink. There is no sun breaking across the tops of the trees, crowning them in golden heat. He has hidden himself today, sleeping under thick, gray, downy blankets. The trees will wait for him. They are nothing if not patient.
  A wren sits at the top of one of the bushes, flicking and ruffling its feathers every other second to dislodge the cold drops the pummel it from above. It dives deeper into the foliage, then up to the top again. It is uncomfortable, but prefers the rain to the dark inside.
   High above, barely visible, another bird soars across the flat gray expanse. What drives these creatures to venture out when the sky is crying? What causes them to take to the air when the elements are so opposed to their very makeup? They sing just as if it were a sunny spring morning, welcoming the day for what it is - another day, another chance at life.
  

The Back Porch (#3)

This exercise is from N.D. Wilson's blog (www.ndwilson.com); I'm imitating the master and becoming a thief. :P
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Half light and half shade, Half green and half blue. Half flat, half varied.  The view off the back porch is a dicotomy of color, of texture, of vibrant life and a barely obscured view into cool space.
  It's all a conspiracy, really. If it weren't for all this greenery producing all these gasses, we might be able to look straight into the heavens (and die in the process, but hey). Does it follow, then, that plants are jealous of the stars? One has the glory of creeping life, of death and rebirth, the other the glory of constant, unchanging light, sometimes invisible, but always present. Yet the leaves yearn for the touch of the sun, and bask in its warmth. The sun gives life, and receives nothing in return but the company of globular rocks hurtling around it in a timeless dance. How small these bushes are in comparison! And I am smaller still.
  The cool breeze fiddles with the tips of branches, setting vines swaying back and forth, animating life which does not move of its own accord.  We humans race about, constantly searching for something new, something to do, something to interest us and upon which to use our powers of intellect and imagination. The trees stand joyfully in place, pushing their roots further into the ground, reaching their branches toward the sky, ever stretching, ever increasing, pausing to drop their leaves, pushing out new buds once again. They are content in their glory, in their lot, their place. They know what they have been created to do. They give God glory by fulfulling His created purpose for them.

Make me like the trees of the field, Lord. Make me one who gives your glory by my very existence. May people look at me and say, "She declares the glories of God!"
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. . . Well, I think I sort of failed the exercise this morning, seeing as how I spent more time thinking about what I was seeing than just describing it physically. Maybe it counts anyway. :)

The Back Porch (#2)

   It is early morning, and already the sky is bright and pale. The sun throws its yellow curtain across the tops of the leaves, inching ever higher in its desire to bathe the earth in light. The back porch is cool and expectant. No drop of sunlight falls across the mottled concrete. No bird hops from railing to railing. Cold seeps through the glass doors and tickles my toes. The sky lends its blue to all the shadows, and reflects on the dark metal of the rusting iron railings. A pale, uneven line runs across the porch where memories of rain has shoved age and dirt out of the way in the race from heaven to earth.
   The foliage is so thick and cramped together that I cannot distinguish one bush from another. A drabby cardinal flits into view, shakes itself, and hops further in, questing for six-legged meals. The red vines are draped across the top of the largest bush conglomerant, like a thin scarf around a fat lady's neck. She is dressed in broad yellow leaves, shaped like long hearts, and darker, smaller leaves populate the spaces in between. Her skirt is wide, and grass brush its hem.
The sun's rays creep ever lower, brushing the lady's scarf with brilliance. She will be bathed in its glow, warmed and thawed, awakened to the new day. Her servants are beginnings to busy themselves with the days preparations with a bustle of wings and feathers. They dart here and there, each intent in his own mission, each blithely unaware of my observation.

Unnamed Story, Chapter 1

   It was getting dark and I was tired. The walk from the corner dollar store used to seem longer going than coming, but now . . . Mother's absence weighed heavily on my shoulders. I sighed, and tried to quicken my step, the heavy plastic bags bouncing against my legs as I struggled to keep my fingers coiled around the stretching handles. The baby needed more formula, the twins had to have milk in the morning, and we were all out of canned beans. Most people don't grocery shop at dollar stores, so they don't realize the deals they're missing. Canned goods and bags of noodles are cheap. Freezer or 'fridge foods aren't, though. I hoped Da wouldn't ask to see the receipt right away.

   There was a haze in the air, and for a moment I could imagine that the bugs swarming beneath the street lights were faeries flitting about. I let my eyes unfocus, watching the small, blurry figures in their crazy dance. Music drifted from an open window, pulsing and pounding at my head. I shook it, and hoisted the bags a little higher. Had to get home. Had to bathe the littles and check on Da. He hated sleeping alone in the big bed now, but if I let him stay on the couch, his back would ache even more in the morning.

   A car door slammed, and I jumped, glancing behind me. I must've been walking slower than I thought, because it was dark now, and I wasn't as close to home as I should've been. A jolt went through my stomach when I thought I saw a shadow move, but then a cat stretched and slunk away, and I felt silly. But I still squinted after it to make sure it wasn't black. I tried to breath slowly, but my nerves were up now. Without meaning to, I started thinking through what I'd do if someone came up the street behind me. Drop the bags? Kick off my shoes? I was a good runner, but I hated to waste all this money. If I arrived home breathless and foodless, I wasn't sure it was worth my life over the kid's stomachs. Besides, I was being silly. No one was there. I still switched the baby-formula bag to a more accessible place, though, so I could drop everything else if I needed to.

    I looked up and froze. The cat was back, sitting perfectly still in the sidewalk in front of me. Dread crept into my stomach and down my legs. It was completely black, except for a little white spot on its chest. Black enough. I shuddered. Da would've crossed himself and trudged forward, but Mother never did. She always just ran. I compromised.

The back porch (#1)

This exercise is inspired by N.D. Wilson's (www.ndwilson.com) blog post So You Wanna be a Writer, Pt. 4 (Exercise). If I do it right, I should be writing these just about every day, and each time it should be different. Creative sketch - go!
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Our back porch is striped in cool, blue tinged shadows, mottled where the blurred outlines of trees leave their shifting mark, dark where the iron fencing stretches thin lines against the light. The sun shines warm, yellow hues on the concrete, which is mottled with age, worn by rain, tinged with the green dreams of moss.
Beyond the iron border, deeper green lives.  The green stretches high, made of bushes and trees, covered in vines and poked through with heavy-laden branches. A squirrel appears suddenly, leaping and scurrying from thin branch to thinner, then out of sight behind the foliage. The sun gleams through the leaves here, setting them aglow. The shadows underneath look tantalizing, full of passageways for the imagination.
From where I sit, the ground is invisible. The green could stretch away forever, an impossibly deep canyon filled with quiet, rustling growth.  The sky stretches in the other direction, brilliant, pale, its fluffy white decorations hiding behind the branches. The breeze is very slight, only setting a few leaves bouncing here or there. The tips of the bushes stand straight, pointing to the sky, reaching for light and nourishment, straight as soldiers, silent and waiting.
There are a few red vines peeping through the bush-tops. Whether they come with the cold taste of autumn, or their color is a constant forewarning against irritated, itching skin, I do not know. The rest of the foliage is steeped in green, clinging to life, rejecting the changing seasons. Only one tree has embraced the need to drop its leafy coating in preparation for winter, and it does so reluctantly.

Jack of all trades, master of none

"Master of none" . . . that's what I'm afraid is happening to me. I am interested in so many different directions that I can sense what's coming; meager talents spread out over a wide area of interests and cultivated in none.

I consider myself an artist, but can you really be one if you aren't drawing, sketching, pushing yourself, creating things?
I enjoy writing, but in no way could be considered a 'writer'. I've never written a character sketch. I haven't finished a story (even a short story) since I was a kid - and I think it only happened once.
I love singing, but I'm not taking lessons, and I'm unwilling to wake up 3 times every night to get out of bed and practice proper breathing.
I like plants. I tend to kill them (I say this as I look at my sparse rosemary bush and half-dead succulents).
I enjoy cooking (read iliketoeat) but I don't really follow directions and we're too poor for fancy ingredients, anyway.

All this to say, I like to do stuff. But I'm not especially fabulous at any of it. Therefore, this blog has come into existence to help me with at least one of them; writing.
I have recently discovered N.D. Wilson's books (readthemnow), and in his blog he has several fantastic articles for aspiring writers. I don't even know if I am an aspiring writer, but I felt challenged to stretch myself in that direction, mainly because I have a story/novel idea I'm working on, and I REALLY would love to finally finish a story for once in my life. And I want it to be good. And the dreamer part of me wants it to get published. One step at a time.

This blog is for me. If you enjoy reading it I AM SO HAPPY! But if nobody ever reads it, that's okay. :) I just wanted a place to write outside of my word documents.

Lord, I commit all my efforts to you. I desire to do things excellently and to grow as a person and to hone what gifts you have given me. Help all my endeavors to give you honor, for everything I have is from you and for you. Amen.