All right, here is a rant. About how when I spend hours on a drawing, I put sweat, blood, and tears into a drawing, put love into every brushstroke, post it here on dA, and it only gets a handful of faves and comments, but a stamp or poster that only takes me five minutes to make, those get more faves than I can thank for and more comments than I can reply to. Not that I'm complaining about the faves and comments I do get, but it seems that it's only fair to get out of a deviation what I put into it. It pisses me off to no end to have slaved for hours on a drawing, post it, then hover over my inbox, waiting for faves and comments that never seem to come. I might not be the greatest artist (hey I'm working to improve) but it still pisses me off to no end to post a deviation that I put love and labor into but nobody even bothers to give me constructive criticism. It feels like getting all dressed up to go to a party then being stood up.
Though I might not post much of it on dA, I've been writing a great deal of prose, and this comes as a cycle: I've been reading the right books, watching the right movies and TV shows, listening to the right music, playing the right video games, had the right life experience, known the right people, wanted the right revenge, had the right dreams, gone on the right trips, and the stars are right and I get an idea for a new story. I'll daydream about the story, write it down, lose sleep over it, put sweat, blood, and tears into it, talk to myself about it, love it as if it were my own child, finish it, feel accomplished, put it on the back burner for awhile, come back to it, then think that it's an embarrassing piece of crap that nobody will ever want to read and can never be turned into anything anyone will ever want to read, then put it in "The Vault" to never see the light of day again. I show my stories to beta readers, but that's like casting them into the wind. Intellectually I know that not everybody's going to like my work, and I accept that intellectually, but emotionally I want everyone to like my work, because I'm very a sensitive to criticism, but intellectually I know that not everyone's going to like my work, and that I'll never improve without criticism. And in some ways beta readers not getting back to me is worse than criticism. Then I become overly critical of myself, thinking that, especially my most recent story that I finished, is a 200 page long self spoiling unoriginal piece of garbage where I wear my influences on my sleeves. Sigh. How am I ever going to turn the brain diarrhea I call my literature into anything anyone will actually want to read?
Oh, I'm still looking for places to volunteer at, and I only have a couple of days to decide if I should stay in Modern Dance class.
I guess I have better things to to at 3 AM, like sleep, and um, sleep...