Monthly Archives: August 2012

SO due to some unfortunate circumstances, my laptop is not working right now. This means that will be difficult for me to put up new illustrations for a while. HOWEVER, I should still be able to deliver the stories.


Story no. 4. 

We started in Martigny, Dad and I. He made noises about wishing he could have brought his own bike, the three-thousand-dollar custom creation, super lightweight aluminum frame enamel-coated with the precisely correct shade of blue, thirty gears and mounted with pouches to carry his tire kit and first-aid . . . but the truth was that the price of flying into Geneva from Omaha with Mom had already made him white-knuckle tense, and any further expenses would have pushed him beyond rigid to unhinged.

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Story no. 2, with an illustration to follow tonight.

The week after Anushka killed herself was a terrible one at the school. At first all the teachers were supposed to pretend that they didn’t know, and in fact there was an awkward period between when she didn’t sign in Tuesday morning and about five hours after the body was found that no one really did know what happened, whether she had been murdered or had an accident or run off to Gagnesk—

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The first story! The illustration will follow later today.

You talk about memories, and the first time you remember meeting someone, whether it was sharing an umbrella at the tram stop or him passing you a napkin at the church picnic when ice cream dripped down your collar or him making a delivery to the office and resting his hand next to the typewriter on the piece of paper you used to test the tape when you first put it in—but Maggie couldn’t remember that moment at all. A square parade of envelopes twisted down her recollection, one much like the other, slipped under her door and taped to the knob, long before she could name the hesitantly smiling face that passed her sometimes on the stair in the morning. (But never at night. No, thank God, not at night.) Read More

I have a brilliant friend, Kat Coy, who is halfway through an amazing project: she is creating one oil painting a day for a year (with weekends off.) She was an amazing artist at the beginning of this year, but watching her work grow and develop in the last 80 paintings has been really spectacular — and, unsurprisingly, inspiring.

I am not an oil painter, but I do very much need prompting and structure to practice my respective crafts: writing and illustration. So, without further ado, here begins my new project: a story of ~1000 words and an illustration (hopefully related), every day for a year, with weekends off.