Disappointment

I don't know how else to say this. I've been removed from the book project. Fired.

Long story short - the author wasn't happy with my first round of illustrations. She wasn't happy with the revisions. And rather than try to get me to do them yet again, she pulled me off the whole thing. There will be a different project for me in the future, according to her, because I have, after all, been paid. Unfortunately, after all is said and done, I will have essentially paid her. The hours, supplies, and energy invested in the project have far outspent what I was paid in salary or any residuals I might have received.

I'm trying really, really hard right now to talk myself into believing it's not because I suck. It's that my style wasn't what she wanted. It's not a matter of technical ability, not a matter of creative talent - it's just that what I do is not what she wants.

This is the first of many lessons I am going to endure in the journey toward professional creativity. And frankly, I don't know if I can do this. A quiet career in academia might be in order, with my creative energies more suited for personal projects. As I wind down my B.F.A. pursuit I realize I'm no better at what I do now than I was three years ago. I hate to think that I'll be now saddled with more student loan debt for a degree I won't use, but...it looks like that might indeed be the case.

See, here's a little secret about your beloved Deedums that you might not know: I am truly a creature of positive reinforcement. And every time I am dealt a blow in the form of criticism, I die a little inside and my confidence shrinks. This is why my upcoming gallery hanging is giving me hives just thinking about it. This is why I've never really displayed anything I've done. And this is why getting pulled off the book is enough to make me want to crawl back into bed right now and stay there until Christmas.

And yet - here comes the second twin rearing her head - part of me wants to take these drawings, change the story line, and publish my own fucking book. I own the images, and as long as I rewrite the story, I can do with them whatever I wish. When I was in college, I wrote two children's books. Both professors urged me to publish them, telling me that the stories and the illustrations were publish-worthy. Perhaps I'll resurrect them.

But right now? I'm just going to go back to bed.