Quills and Frills

Ravenchase Clue Herndon

2016-06-06T17:16:00.003-04:00

Laureates and Prints

2015-10-10T00:40:00.001-04:00

Hey friends, I'm doing a cool thing this weekend that I wanted to share. I have been invited to read next to some of the best poets in the region at the Write by the Rails' event "In the Company of Laureates." They even gave me the honor of my own booth to sell my books! I don't have any books of course, so I'll be selling prints instead.

If you're free October 11 and on the east coast, check out the event page and stop by to say hi and listen to some poetry! I'll be pretty easy to spot. Just look for the booth that doesn't have books or a professional looking adult around.

Also, because it took me about 5 hours to detail the bottom image and I'm sad it came out so small, check out how I spent my free time this week:

I'm a Monster

2015-09-14T20:16:00.001-04:00

I don't know what to do with my hands when there's a baby near me. Do I wave? Do I set down my drink? Should I pretend my wine is juice? Do babies like burritos?

Sheik and the Mayor

2015-08-01T13:39:00.001-04:00

I love Animal Crossing, but sometimes I can't help but think the other villagers are humoring me. They keep giving me shirts and even at their most disappointed they hide it in a wash of compliments. My theory is that the Villager's mother was a brilliant scientist that turned forest animals into sentient beings. She left her clueless and spoiled child behind when she died, and the rest of the town tolerates him because they respect his mother and he has opposable thumbs.

Also I like to imagine whenever we don't see Sheik it's because she's hiding in a tree brooding and being mysterious.

Interview with Luigi

2015-07-21T13:29:00.001-04:00

There's no way Luigi isn't absolutely insane. There's probably more of these Smash comics coming. I can't stop drawing them. help.

I'll Show You My Moves

2015-07-16T11:43:00.000-04:00

Choose Your Ally: Olimar

2015-05-26T21:23:00.004-04:00

I decided to start a series called "Choose Your Ally," featuring players chilling with their favorite Super Smash Bros characters. I'll likely be posting these sporadically, but I might assemble them into an album and sell prints if I get around to finishing.

OLIMAR

Batman and the Squirrel's Lair

2015-05-20T19:27:00.001-04:00

Day 1:

Like Kevin McCallister or Ferris Bueler, my story begins with a sick day.

My day's activities consisted of moaning and sniffling in bed, pleading with my cat Batman to cuddle with me, and plotting ways to get more chocolate and chips into my room. When my roommates left, I scuttled downstairs for chips and candy, so no one could see how far I had fallen.

I put myself in self-inflicted quarantine to conceal from the world the husk of a human I had become. When Bob asked to come help me, I turned him away to protect his health and his opinion of me. I had become a mouth-breathing monster.

I went to bed early that night, cocooned in a blanket of self-pity. I had no idea it would be the last time I felt safe in my home.

Day 2:

I awoke to Batman experiencing an existential crisis.

Batman appeared to be investigating a new hole in the wall, the size of a fist. I brushed aside my tissue hill and put on my detective face. I didn't remember hitting a wall, and Batman's tiny paws couldn't punch through plaster.

There was no other explanation: something had burrowed into my room.

I climbed up on the desk for closer inspection while Batman awaited orders below. The hole appeared to house an animal nest. Two and a half inches in diameter; just big enough to give a headstrong squirrel access to my living quarters.

It was time to put my detective face on.

For formality's sake, I called my landlord to inform him of the situation. I don't like going to the higher-ups when I can solve a case on my own, but no one likes a maverick detective who can't take orders.

He promised roofers would be over within a week to rectify the situation. Typical bureaucracy. Too much time spent on paperwork and not enough on the streets. I didn't need any backup. I had Batman.

But then I realized--if roofers patched the hole, the creature wouldn't be able to escape. He would be trapped and his blood would be on my hands. I don't like vandals, but no one deserves to die like that.

I needed to make that hole in the wall an unpleasant place to live. I hoped that if the home seemed too hostile, he would find a new residence. Hopefully in a tree or my neighbor's roof.

I armed myself with tweezers, an oven mitt, tongs, and a plastic bag, and began to disassemble the nest. The suspect made no appearance. For all I knew, the hole had been there even before I moved in. I removed much of the bedding (which was mostly insulation) and returned to the hard-earned work of feeling sorry for myself.

Day 3:

I awoke to the sound of scratching on the walls. After a moment of baffled horror, I remembered yesterday's mystery.

Something did live in there, then. And considering how costly all that scratching sounded, the landlord would surely call for an execution. I had to get him out of there. Groggy and feverish, I resumed my task of eviction.

The vandal replaced all the bedding I had removed the day before. I plucked out the material piece by piece. Inside, I heard the foreboding shuffle of tiny paws.

I removed the last piece of insulation and gazed into the abyss.

And the abyss gazed back.

This was too big for one girl and her cat.

I was used to handling tough cases on my own, but in this instance I am not afraid to say I needed help. I had never seen eyes so empty and cruel.

I was alone. My roommates had evacuated the infected house, and I was to face this beast with only Batman by my side.

I wondered what the squirrel was thinking. Was he angry? Scared? Had he ever been in love? I needed to know him before I could defeat him.

But the beast remained wrapped in mystery.

I lay awake in bed that night, listening to him construct his home. Up in his big tower. Watching and delighting in the destruction below. In that long night, I named him Saruman.

Day 4:

Saruman began tunneling through the walls.

Probably building a squirrel city. Probably planning a wild squirrel party to invite all his squirrel friends and maybe a raccoon or opossum. I needed to stop this madness before vagabonds and hoodlums started partying in my walls.

Last night's confrontation still echoed in my mind, but I had only a few days to evacuate him before the roofers sealed his fate.

Saruman was surely evil, but I still could not bring myself to let him die.

I started subtle, tapping on the walls to wake him up and annoy him a bit. Scuffling within, and a squirrel--surely Saruman--hopped onto a branch from my windowsill. Did this mean I had won? Had he recognized my altruistic motives? Or (more likely) had he left his lair to quench his bloodthirst?

I took advantage of the unexpected time by sabotaging his base. I frantically pulled insulation from the hole. Leaves, plastic wrapping, receipts--society's carnage fell from his lair in terrible reminder of this squirrel's nefarious potential.

I tapped along the wall once more to test for any signs of life within. I wanted to go deeper, take out the whole nest.

But Saruman was not so easily disposed of.

He lurched from the wall and leered at me. There was no trace of fear or curiosity or mercy in those eyes. Just a hollow gaze that promised retribution. He maintained eye contact until I looked away, defeated.

Bob, a civilian with the guts of a private detective, arrived with some soup despite my warnings for him to keep away. I asked him for ideas, but like Batman, he had no answers. He didn't recognize the severity of the problem, either, and kept talking about topics such as "my day at work," "have you been drinking fluids?" "when's the last time you took your temperature?" and, the longest diversion: "did you like the soup?"

I met his questions with stoic silence. I knew there was a solution to this infestation. But time was running out.

The scratching continued into the night.

Day 5 10:45 AM:

Saruman adopted a new strategy of throwing insulation out of the hole. I added sunglasses to my protective gear.

Batman succumbed to the diversion tactic immediately, and continued to attack the insulation with all the verve of a hungry velociraptor. Just like Saruman knew would happen.

He disarmed my only ally by targeting her weakness: a passion for eating things that could kill her.

His cruel and merciless tactics unnerved me. He observed us and learned from us. I did not doubt he would soon learn how to break us.

2:15 PM:

SARUMAN BREACHED THE WALL! He entered the bedroom in an act of war.

He was everywhere.

I frantically armed myself with the oven mitt and tongs, with no clear idea how I would capture Saruman safely.

Batman, rather than help, experienced a number of conflicting emotions--excitement, terror, bloodlust, confusion.

Eventually the tug-of-war between terror and bloodlust became too confusing, and she army-crawled her way under my desk.

Where she promptly forgot the threat and proceeded to eat a plastic bag.

Eventually Saruman retreated, but Batman and I had been shaken to our core. We were never safe. He always watched.

Day 5:

Roofers arrived at noon. I donned an additional sweatshirt for armor as they secured the ladder and hoisted up their tools.

Saruman was ready for me this time. He burst from the hole in a cloud of pink insulation.

On instinct I stepped back and into nothingness. I grabbed for purchase, got a lamp instead, and knocked off the lamp, vanity mirror, graded exams, and my dignity.

Hours passed. The roofers left after patching some water damage in our roof, but the hole had not been touched. Bob visited again to see if my health had improved.

And shortly left.

Day 8 and beyond:

The roofers repaired all the water damage on the roof, but left without touching Saruman's lair. I called my landlord, but he didn't remember anything about a squirrel. "You were sick," he said, "maybe it's not actually an animal's nest, just water damage after all."

I've since returned to work. My fever broke, and my health continues to improve. I hear the scratching in my room still, and it follows me into my dreams. Batman and I sleep in shifts. We have since ceased our attacks lest he enter the room again, but we know he lives there still, listening and waiting.

I do not mention Saruman to my friends anymore. When I enter the room, my eyes skim past the hole. But still I stand, guarding the gate to evil with the silent vigil of the Night's Watch. Do not weep for me; I have chosen this path.

Lady and a Lion, I Suppose

2015-05-01T19:28:00.001-04:00

I got new markers and haven't been able to stop drawing things with lots of hair and then coloring the crap out of them.

Passive-Aggressive Farting

2015-04-03T20:34:00.002-04:00

Sometimes people infuriate you, but you can't justify yelling at them. In these moments, a silent but aggressive fart will make them suitably uncomfortable and avoids direct confrontation. And the best part: 90% of the time it's socially unacceptable for them to acknowledge your silent stinky attack. So they just endure it. In silence.

Therapy Part 2

2015-04-01T08:22:00.000-04:00

Therapy Part 1

2015-03-26T20:16:00.000-04:00

Playing Pretend

2015-03-15T16:12:00.000-04:00

Dangerous Game

2015-02-11T21:53:00.001-05:00

I'm pretty sure my cat could take me in a fight and we both know it.

Haiku Contest Winners

2015-02-04T21:00:00.000-05:00

I recently ordered some Quills and Frills merchandise from my Cafe Press shop to see if the physical products looked anything like the sample pictures (surprisingly, it all came out great). Of course, then I needed to figure out what to do with three magnets, three bumper stickers, a t-shirt, and a wallet. Most of the stuff quickly found homes (with me), but I pitched my followers on Facebook against one another like gladiators to win one of the three bumper stickers.

The prize:

The challenge: Write a haiku about dinosaurs, wizards, or creepy things cats do.

The winning haikus were so awesome I had no choice but to illustrate them. So enjoy some guest poetry from Lillian Leonard, Nancy Hazelwood, and Peter Booth!

Lillian Leonard

Nancy Hazelwood (Buttons's dialog added by me)

Peter Booth (I added the duck stuff).

If you're currently wondering desperately how to follow me on Facebook, check out the sidebar! I drew up a button to whisk you off to the Quills and Frills Facebook page.

Let It Blow: Public Restrooms

2015-01-24T19:46:00.004-05:00

Frozen's "Let It Go" describes the experience of public pooping too closely to be a coincidence.

My Imagination Is Trying to Kill Me

2014-12-25T16:22:00.001-05:00

Sometimes I wish my imagination would shut up for a night so I could get some homework done.

I'm a Mother Flipping Teacher

2014-01-20T17:47:00.004-05:00

I recently got hired on by my graduate school to teach a 200 level writing course. I have no idea how this happened. There was an application process in there somewhere, but I think it malfunctioned and failed to filter me out of their system. I don't think I've worn matching socks in years (not for lack of trying, either), and my diet consists of Taco Bell and dreams. There is no way I am equipped to teach college students how to write.

Yet, here I am.

And for the month I had to prepare, I was pumped. I might be disorganized, forgetful, and prone to fits of daydreaming during conversation--but my school believed in me. And that was enough to make me believe in myself.

The morning of my first day, "Eye of the Tiger" might as well have been playing on repeat.

I wasn't just employed as a professional--I acted like a professional. I drove to work and didn't even get lost (more than once). And even though the pants I wore were clearly ironed by a twelve year old (or a twenty-three year old with limited experience who had to borrow one from her roommate), they were ironed.

Finally, my moment came.

I've made a huge mistake.

Grayland Goodbye

2013-11-24T19:49:00.000-05:00

Six months living in the house I found on Craigslist with three unfamiliar men (Grayland Manor origin story) and I hadn't once thought about moving out. Then all of a sudden we had three days until the lease was up.

The workload wasn't too horrible for me--I'd lived in this place for only six months, after all. I could be packed up in a few hours at worst. However, the Manor had been lived in and loved for three years, by a number of different people, many of whom were now living on the other side of the country and still hadn't claimed their belongings.

We had a wall papered in cheap beer boxes, chairs, a pair of briefs that had been under the couch since before time itself, a fondue set, inspirational posters about day-drinking, mystery sludge in the fridge, an entire Ottoman stuffed with raunchy magazines, and much, much more.

Fireman had moved out a month ago to start a new life with his kitten, so it was up to Metalhead, Billiards, and myself to sort the abandoned goods and clean the place.

After seriously debating the pros and cons of arson, we took a well-deserved break for Taco Bell. After our well-deserved Taco Bell break, we were tired from all the eating and driving, so we took a brief beer break, after which we went to bed for some well-deserved rest.

Procrastination is a sophisticated art, requiring some crafty self-manipulation. You have to convince yourself beyond a doubt, in the face of all logic and evidence, that you're completely within the norm to put off your work. You've got plenty of time, you should get a nice eight hours of sleep, that'll do you more good in the end, anyway.

Then, when you can't put it off anymore, you wake up in a fit of crippling self-loathing.

To make up for it, you have to scurry around in fits of panic, shoving things into boxes, throwing things away you would otherwise keep, getting the two piles mixed up and packing the lost-in-time-couch-briefs with the dishes and throwing away a new set of pots.

And then, since we didn't space out all the work we had, we had to stay in that state of panic for a good seventy-two hours. We staved off hunger with whatever scraps we found in cupboards, the occasional Taco Bell run, and adrenaline.

The final day found us haggard, confused, and skittish.

I had one mission. I repeated my commands over and over, determined to get it right. I needed Spackle for the walls and a replacement flusher-mechanism. But I'd had little sleep, I was hungry, and we had less than eight hours to evacuate the house. I approached the nearest Lowe's employer and appealed to them for aid.

I don't know what crisis the people at the Lowe's thought I was experiencing, but they got me the merchandise quickly and spoke in soothing voices. I returned with the goods and we began a horrifying day of fast-paced moving and home improvements.

Fireman came by to help out with some of the heavy lifting, and my future roommate Bob joined briefly to laugh at how much work we still had ahead of us. Occasionally my past and future roommates spoke to me like I was an alien, worried I was going to get emotional and start sobbing on the balcony in a fit of nostalgia or something.

Metalhead, Fireman, and Bob left to start moving into the new house, so only Billiards and I remained, chucking dishes into boxes and throwing clothes into dumpsters indiscriminately. We finally left the empty house I had come to love, moments before the landlord arrived with the new tenants.

Leaving the Grayland Manor behind bummed me out, but it wasn't so bad. I just moved a few miles down the road with the friends I had made during my time at the manor. And the small (exceptionally large) part of my brain that views my life as a book and myself as a protagonist saw the making of a sequel to the first hit novel, this one titled The Southside Estate, or maybe Look I'm Still Relevant In These People's Lives and that Makes Me Happy Because I'm Afraid of Being Alone.

The Little Girl Who Thought She Understood the Universe

2013-06-19T17:12:00.002-04:00

Mind Blown

2013-05-30T15:28:00.000-04:00

The Grayland Manor

2013-05-24T18:36:00.000-04:00

Five months ago, I needed to find a place in the city—and quick. After calling every ad within walking distance of the campus on craigslist, I finally stumbled on a house, deceptively known as "The Grayland Manor," that even offered the first month free of rent. Only catch: I’d be living with three guys I had never met.

My friend and blogger, East Coast Goes West, thought this was the best twist in my life so far.

The reality of living with three bachelors was much less glorious.

The guys I found myself living with were just as disorganized and unpredictable as the house.

Billiards plays pool at nights, challenging vain frat boys to shoot against him and leaving the bar a few hours later with a self-satisfied smile and more money than he started with. His pool habit and delivering pizza has left Billiards effectively nocturnal. Between his schedule and me hiding in my room, I knew him only by the creak of his door late at night for the first month I lived here.

Metalhead and Fireman spend their free time scrapping copper and donate their proceeds to our centerpiece: a jar with a label that reads: “Keg fund: Keep your f*ing hands off.” Once a week they celebrate a special day known only as “scrap day.” They announce this day with a series of quick chirps back and forth the night before, usually when they are feeling drunk and ambitious:

The day comes into fruition when the first of them wakes up, howling “SCRAP DAY” through the house until they find one another.

Metalhead and Fireman rename everyone that lives in the house. They know me as “SAAAAAAAAAAM” and recorded me in their phones as such, in spite of my quiet protests that I prefer “Samantha.” Further, their farewell is “F*ck off, blow it out your ass” or some variation thereof, which didn’t do much to make me feel welcome.

But in spite of how determinedly abrasive they are, they slowly coaxed me out of my hiding place in my room.

And, slowly but surely, I found I was being absorbed into the household just as the mystery mold in the shower absorbed the shower curtain.

Many scrap days have passed, each bringing me closer to the Grayland Manor and those who frequent it. I started to write down the ridiculous exchanges that transpired in front of me—from the time Fireman apprehended smelling salts from an emergency vehicle and tested them on Metalhead, to the first time I won drinks at pool under Billiards’ tutelage. Unfortunately, two chapters in to what I was sure would become my break-out novel, I realized I was writing the plot to New Girl.

So I wrote a blog post about it instead.

It's Finals Week and I Just Discovered Portal

2013-05-06T12:43:00.000-04:00

Whoops.

Highs and Lows of Hogwarts and Fame

2013-04-22T15:26:00.001-04:00

So I wrote about the time I tried to be a scholar, but I've gotten a request to write about some of the happier points of my trip to the conference in Florida (Jessica, you're pretty).

After my panel, my favorite professor/mentor invited me and another student to join his family in Harry Potter World. I'm lucky his kids were as excited about Harry Potter as I was--otherwise I would have looked pretty ridiculous hopping through the theme park in a day-long adrenaline rush. As it was, I found that middle school and high school companions are perfect for me when I'm high on Harry Potter.

I went through an identity crisis or two during my stay there, but eventually I decided against hiding in the theme park and staying in Hogsmeade forever.

After reluctantly returning to the Muggle world, I listened to one of my favorite authors, Neil Gaiman, read from his new novel. If you've never heard that man read, go buy/rent the audiobook for Neverwhere--he narrates it with all the lilting tones of Jeremy Irons, Anthony Hopkins, and Morgan Freeman. Yeah, it's awesome.

Next day, I hopped in line to have him sign a book for me and my dad. While in line, I pulled out my cheap sketch paper and doodled some of my favorite pieces of Gaiman novels/screenplays.

Then, in a fit of confidence, I gave it to him when he signed my book.

I meekly accepted my signed books and left, too terrified to do more than hand him the slip of paper and stutter while trying, somehow, desperately, to make an impact on someone who has thousands of people tell him every week how much he has impacted them.

And then, glory of all glories, complimentary wine! The hotel provided some wine for the conference goers to enjoy for an hour-long wine social. I surprised myself and approached an author I had met before and admire (Andy Duncan, sci-fi short story writer), introduced myself to fellow scholars, and had a hoot.

But the free alcohol didn't stop there! After the social I went out to the pool and found myself in a mingled group of professors, authors, theorists, and fans. Wine, Kahlua, and beer passed liberally between us, a Finnish man shared his Gandalf-esque pipe, I made friends and got myself fairly drunk.

And at some point this happened:

I drank until 6AM, when I went back to the hotel room and packed my bags (poorly, I left some important items, like an external harddrive), caught the shuttle to the airport, and began the long slow slump back into sobriety.

It sucked.

I cradled my barf bag and gazed out the window, remembering friends made, adventures had, and magic left behind.

But then I sucked it up and remembered something very important about myself.

What Hell Is Like (Spoiler Alert)

2013-04-12T15:53:00.000-04:00

I'm taking a hard science fiction course--which is amazing. Hard sci-fi's kinda my thing. And it is perfect--we've got an excellent line-up of top-notch books, stimulating discussion, and an engaging atmosphere. I've been giddy every class. There's only one problem.

Twenty-five students share my class (it's my only shared-with-undergrads course), and each of them is expected to read a book and present for ten minutes on it. The principle behind this makes perfect sense: get students to practice public speaking, and expose us to more literature than we could possibly read in a semester.

However, the result is a dark series of spoilers--twenty-five of them to be exact. Twenty-five novels in my favorite genre laid bare by nervous students who rush through the author's carefully structured lingual finesse to summarize a plot and tell me the who-dun-it at the end.

For the duration of each presentation, my heart retreats to a dark place where it weeps softly.

I tried shutting out the information, thinking about things that normally distract me against my will. But to no avail.

Some of the spoilers were downright cruel.

After three months of the torment, I finally had to prepare a presentation of my own. I'd read this novel, and loved it, and had to face ruining the end for a class full of devoted readers of science fiction. Though I was fairly sure none of them particularly minded, I was not at peace with myself.

The day of my dark deed, an undergrad presenting on Orson Scott Card's Speaker for the Dead went before me. He described the characters, the different races, the world, and gave a very brief summary of events. But then, he did something completely unexpected.

He broke the system. He broke outside of the established pattern and stood for what he believed in. Was I so cynical, so bent on pleasing the class, that I had let go of my values? I watched the brave young undergrad accept polite applause as he resumed his seat, stomach in self-loathing knots. I couldn't revise as I went--when I created my prezi, I had laid the seeds and committed my crime.

As I waited for prezi to load, I thought about my life. What circumstances had suspended my morals to the point that I would give away the ending to a perfectly good book? What changed me? Who was I, anymore? I wasn't even sure we were expected to spoil the end for our grade. In fact, I wasn't even sure I knew myself.

Finally, the equipment warmed up and projected my transformation into something less than a human. I'd betrayed my class and myself:

_____________

(for the record, not everyone dies. The worst spoilers are in very tiny letters so I won't hurt the internet like I did my class and my self-respect)