Want ti do something but keep thinking “I’m not good enough/I won’t be able to do it”
aka the story of my life
Sorry, I really haven’t posted anything since the day before yesterday, and I probably won’t for, I don’t know, a copule more days, but I am lacking ideas and not feeling really well: I felt sick all the day and didn’t accomplish much.
I apologize, maybe tomorrow I’ll feel better and I’ll actually draw something!
"There’s what in my head?!”
This idea was stuck in my mind for a while, finally did it!
Could have worked more on it, I don’t know, give it a transparent background or something, but in these last days I’m really tired (and I have no idea of he reason) and don’t feel like working more on it
But can I just write a little appreciation for modmad and her work? Look a the amount of fanart I’m doing on her works
sorry and how I almost always try something new. And that’s just fantastic because I discover so much things that I didn’t know that I liked (like flat shadows here)! So really, thank you for being an amazing source of inspiration!
everyone’s doing cool art for 413 and then theres me
HAPPY 413 AND THANKS FOR OVER 1000 FOLLOWERS GUYS!
… Ah-ehm, I think I can explain-
First off, I can’t animate. Or at least I never tried seriously so this is like a first time? There are like a zillion of billion of errors, but must start somewhere, right?
Hero’s saying “Tell me a story”, and the only word I understand knowing what she’s pronouncing is “tell”, so I need to work on that. and RGB freckles should have shifted in the last one while the cheeks went up for the smile force.
And, well, it’s like an opening scene for that AU of the beautiful story that is inspiring me so much and making me doing buckets of new things latley, eyup!
Let me tell you about my TPoH AU
So yeah, RGB is a human child and he goes to the same school as the Hero. He’s reeally good at telling story, and one day she asks for one. He tell her the story of a Hero who meets a strange telly-head person and proceeds to go on a journey with him.
Later on other children join them and become charachters (like Madras and TOby and Dial who stops just for one day and after mocking his little cousin a bit leaves), and daily stuff is the base of RGB’s ideas. Ah, and a little red-haired kid (I wonder wo she might be :3) iss here from the beginning with her trusty sketchbook!
On another note, why is it so hard to draw Hero actually looking like a child fadsgabfshafHFDSH is so irritating like yes I know how she is but I can’t make her that way >.<
EDIT: Added some random shadows cause I’m too lazy to colour it
Ok, so I saw this and I just HAD to fic it. Amazing AU improv story telling buddies? Yes please!
“…And then the world begins to move again, flic flic flic, and the train goes WHOOSH and the bad guy gets whooshed too, aaaaalll along the tracks-”
“Well he does, Hailey, it’s not my fault, that’s how it happens. Oh, oh, oh, anyway, the black white hero and the tek-nee-color lady, they’re all safe and off they go into the sunset, all happily and safe and ta-daah!”
The Storyteller flopped forward into an extravagant bow to his audience of one. She clapped furiously. He lifted his head, one grey eye visible through a tangle of blond hair, and grinned like a cat before throwing himself down on the grass beside her.
“The end.” The pair chorused. The applause, the foppish bow, the last words- their little closing ritual complete, they stretched out beneath the sky. It was a beautiful day, the kind that nobody over a certain age can remember happening for years. But you know must have happened all the time during your childhood, because how else could you remember it so clearly?
Those days are still happening for these two, the golden era of perpetual summer. Of course, because of this, they don’t really notice it. They’re too busy talking about the really important things, like how many worms are in that bit of earth right there, and why don’t we go see, and isn’t it weird how Miss Price is Mrs Meyer now but she’s still the same person, and how does gravity get inside the house anyway?
Perfection passed by, unnoticed until it was gone, as perfection does. A teacher blew the whistle, prompting the usual mad scramble to get to the front of the lines. Rowan and Hailey hung back a little as usual, deep in discussion about something neither of them would remember when they returned to their homes.
Rowan’s mother had known that the felt-tip pens were a mistake the moment she presented him with them. They had been on a special offer at the supermarket, and most of the pens at home were dried up or had splayed tips from where the children had pressed them too hard to the paper, and, well…all in all, she hadn’t really thought about it. This fact only fully dawned on her when she recognised too late what she had mentally dubbed as that look on Rowan’s face. It was part delight, part guileless cunning and entirely dreadful. It promised mischief. But before she could say anything, he had flung his arms around her waist, blurting out ecstatic “thank you”s before vanishing down the hall into the kitchen. She heard the bang of the door to the cupboard where the pencils, colouring books and paints were kept and let out a sigh. At least he’d be entertained long enough for her to get some work done.
Rowan sat cross-legged on his chair at the kitchen table and examined his new treasure. The pens were thick, lurid and shiny, with transparent plastic caps, the kind where the ink built up on the inside in little spots over time. Yellow, blue, green, pink and red. Bright, tacky and absolutely perfect. Pulling the caps off and holding all five in his fist at once, he drew multicolour loops and swirls, luxuriating in the eye-watering colours. He covered five pages that way before turning his artistic ambition to more concrete subjects. The yappy dog down the road found form in a mass of mostly green blobs. The girl who carried her sketchbook everywhere at school gained a head of shockingly red hair. His much maligned cousin received some cursory attention, but quickly developed into a stick-limbed insect of some sort. Hailey, of course, was dressed in red and green and rendered as flatteringly as his capabilities would allow.
Real life inspiration exhausted, he doodled aimlessly for a while, but nothing satisfactory sprang from the coloured lines that he trailed across the paper. A story-teller by trade, an entertainer at heart- he needed an audience to feed his visions and drawing, whilst a pleasant enough occupation, failed to provide the dynamic necessary to occupy his youthful mind.
His hair slipped across his face, obscuring his vision. He pushed it out of his eyes with a huff of frustration, only for it to fall back down again. Rowan had never liked his hair, which he considered to be very boring; it was curly and so blond as to be almost colourless, and attracted a lot of unwanted attention from elderly female relatives who insisted on ruffling it. He squinted at the intruding locks, cross-eyed. It really was very dull.
An idea struck him. It was accompanied by the faint, nagging doubt that it wasn’t a particularly good idea, but the doubt was ruthlessly extracted and disregarded. Ideas were attractive, and doubts were not. He tiptoed up the stairs and into the bathroom, quietly closing the door behind him. The peace that descended on the household survived for nearly a full twenty minutes before it was shattered by the sound of an opening door and a cry of “Rowan Graham Branston, what on earth have you done to your hair?”
That day became the next day became yesterday. Hailey and Rowan met on the corner where their routes to school joined and set off together, as usual.
“I’ve got something for you,” Rowan announced by way of greeting.
“Ooooh?” Hailey watched as he scrambled about in his school bag. He emerged waving a battered sheet of paper folded into four.
“It’s a clue for our next story.” The stories shared between the pair were always referred to as “our”. An entertainer is nothing without his audience, after all.
“The one about you colouring in your hair with felt pen?”
“Just take a good look at it,” he said evasively. Hailey flattened the paper out as best she could and inspected it.
It was a picture, done in wax crayon (the beloved felt-tips having been confiscated almost the same instant that Rowan’s mother had seen her son’s new technicolour hairstyle) and depicted what looked like a large grey square containing a slightly smaller version of the same. At the bottom of the inner square was a row of bars, enthusiastically coloured and uneven in such a way as to create the impression of a toothy grin. Two black lines projected from the upper corner of the box and soared off the paper.
“It’s great! I love it!” Hailey enthused, “um…what is it?”
“A clue for our next story,” Rowan repeated.
“No, I mean, what’s it of?”
“You’ll have to work it out,” he said gleefully, and then took off down the street before she could stop him, “race you to the end of the road!”
The morning progressed in a peculiar blur, seeming to simultaneously take forever and yet no time at all to pass. Hailey studied the ‘clue’ her friend had given her, at least until the second time the teacher snapped at her for not paying attention, after which she carefully refolded it and hid it in her work tray.
Break-time came around, and Hailey made a beeline for the far side of the playing field to the pair’s customary spot: a patch of grass none too far from the shade of the trees, but far enough removed from the battleground that was the main field. Rowan was waiting for her there, bouncing excitedly.
“Did you figure it out? Did you?”
She shook her head, “no. Not yet.”
He didn’t seem disappointed, “That’s OK. Here, let me give you a hint. Give me the picture.”
She handed it over, and he held it up to his face, drawing side out. He turned a little so he was facing into the breeze and let it hold the picture in place for a moment until the wind dropped. So did the picture. Hailey scooped it up again and studied it critically.
“Well?” Rowan asked, the excitement in his tone palpable, “can you work it out yet?”
Hailey switched her gaze from the picture to her friend. She concentrated on making the cognitive switch from her point of view to Rowan’s. If she were Rowan, what would she-
“Got it!” She beamed, “it’s the main character for story, isn’t it?”
“Give the lady a banana, she got it!” Rowan crowed, making her giggle. “And now,” he proclaimed, flinging his arms wide, “the story!” Hailey sat down, hugging her knees, looking at her friend expectantly. She watched him pace, hand to his mouth, brow furrowed, a caricature of the great genius at work. She waited with bated breath.
And then it happened. That glorious, slightly cunning smile broke across his face like a wave, and was instantly subsumed by an expression of almost comical foreboding. He bowed his head, flexed his stubby child’s fingers, and the performance began.
When Rowan was telling a story, it wasn’t just with his mouth, oh no. His whole body seemed to want to get in on the action. He made grand sweeping motions with his hands, as though shaping the air into some magnificent, invisible sculpture. He crouched, he bounced, he spun on the spot like a top. Look at me! Look at this story! I’ll show you the shapes it makes as it rolls through the air from me to you. Can you see it? Can you?
The opening scene sprang to life, plain as day and twice as real. A bedroom bathed in shadow, a girl curled up, sleeping sound. The hush of a day not yet begun spilling in through the opening window, bringing with it a strange and monstrous form, one that crouched and looked and spoke-
“Would you like to be a Hero?”
That was absolutley perfect!
It’s like you’re in my mind and wrote exactly the things I thought!! And those two are too cute and, at the cost of repeating myself, totally perfect I’m just rolling in a world of rainbows, telly-heads, heroes and happiness right now
thank you so very much ;w;