Sometimes I update my journal just to hide my last journal entry. In this case I update because my last entry was such a bummer that when I thought about it quite recently I realized that some have probably been wondering whether I've gone and died somewhere in a freak circus acrobatic performance accident under mysterious circumstances. I am happy to say that I haven't. I am well.

I just needed to take what I like to call an "intentional break" from deviantART as opposed to an "unintentional break". An unintentional break is what happens when you haven't got anything to update with. An intentional break is what happens when you make the decision not to update whether you have anything to update with or not. In either case, there are no updates for quite a long time.

I had just gotten tired of the devART scene, with its comments and favorites and stuff and such. Not because people have been negative (everybody here is great). I had...just gotten tired of it and I wanted a break. I realized something about everything here was stifling me. I didn't know what it was at the time, but I think I'm starting to understand now.

I don't know whether people are watching me, reading this, wondering or even caring, but to those that are (if there are), I'm not promising anything. I don't know if I'm through with devART. Not yet. Not even after these months stepping in and stepping out. I think there's a chance that I can get excited about managing a gallery again even if I don't know if it's now or never. I don't want to make a big fanfare about quitting or staying whatever the case. I just want to make a journal entry here that I can live with whether I leave it to rot for a couple years or come back in month with a jazillion pictures I can't wait to show off. I just didn't like how I left off last time. I don't want people remembering me storming out in a huff and never coming back. It didn't seem very fair.

I hate taking these sort of extra long leaves I go through even though it's been like this since...what, September? School saps motivation for art like a damn leech. It's not that I work too hard; more that I get too lazy. The more I do, the less I want to do when I finally do have leisure time. I'm afraid of starting on new drawings because of my fear that I won't be able to stop when the time comes to work on something more important. I want to work on Going Postal again, but I can't. I want to get some some sketches up, but I won't. I haven't done anything in Photoshop in weeks... months? I feel like all of my art stuff and talent is just wasted on me since I never get anything done until summer rolls around. Hells, what am I doing? But I'm not sad. No, I'm frustrated dammit. My hands are finally itching, but I dare not scratch.

Yesterday I

Took the Metro.
Walked for a little less than half an hour.
Got to the bookstore.
Read a sign on the bookstore's door.
Walked a little less than ten minutes to a church.
Bought Fragile Things by Neil Gaiman out on the lawn by the door.
Sat on a seat just beyond the pews because the place was packed by the time I got in.
Waited half an hour.
And saw Neil Gaiman.

He read A Study in Emerald. He talked a bit. Everybody laughed at his jokes. He answered some questions. One woman asked him a question about his opinion about religion in which he answered: "I think religion is really, really cool, and I hope people keep on making them up until the end of time." He did an FAQ on some of his upcoming movies. Stardust has finished filming and should be out next year. I think he said John Hodgman will play the father in Coraline, but don't quote me on that. And apparently he also cowrote the screenplay for the upcoming movie Beowulf, which I did not know.

It was about 9:00 when he started signing books, and since I was sitting near the back with 500 some people sitting in front of me, I knew I would be in for quite a wait, and so went and bought Terry Pratchett's new book Wintersmith in between (and thus also getting tickets for his upcoming signing in October).

I finally stood in front of him at around 12:00ish. He wrote "Dream!" in my copy of Fragile Things, which I thought was the most laughably redundant thing he could've possibly written, but I was ridiculously happy to have met him at all as well as astounded that after three hours of signing he was able to write his own name at all anyway. But he's probably had a lot of practice at it.

Also, as I stood in front of him, I couldn't help but say, "My 15 year old brother told me to tell you that he thought your books were lame. And I told him that I'd tell you that I thought you weren't. And I have. And so I win." And Mr. Gaiman replied (not verbatim, because I have a memory as slippery as an eel, dull as a spoon, and shy like a convent girl who had never seen a man before and has found herself standing in the shadow of Chuck Norris):

"Yes, well that's fifteen year old boys for you. When my son was 15 he told me 'Dad, why don't you write any comic books that are cool?'
And I asked him 'Well what do you think is cool?'
'Spiderman.'
'Well, just wait until you're 16 then.'
'Why? Will you write better then?'
'No, but you'll think I'm cool.'"

I laughed heartily.

Then I left.
And I skipped all the way back to the metro station, even if though it was past 12 at night and could've well gotten stabbed or mugged or hit by a car or whatever else it is they warn you about when you're walking home alone in the dead of night. None of that mattered because I had stood in the presence of Neil Gaiman and thought, "This man is really cool."

As everybody says, the man had it coming. But I think the guy went out the only a way a guy such as he could possibly go. The Crocodile Hunter isn't going to die peacefully, and quite undangerously, in bed! He's got to get stabbed through the bloody heart by a stingray. He's gotta go out like Beowulf, I tell ya. A modern warrior hath been slain.

May Steve, a cultural icon responsible for the worst Australian stereotype impressions done by stupid drunk Americans and for many a numerous missing finger with an intersting story, finally move on to greener pastures populated with giant jurassic crocodiles as numerous as the stars.

Or "CrewWolf and the Software/Hardware Problems from the Nether Bungholes of Hell"

A really odd problem has been plaguing shiny new mac computer, although admittedly the problem seems to be caused by something to do with my (also) shiny new Wacom tablet. The problem can be described thusly: Tape down your shift key. Now try to have a normal day with your computer. Go on, try surfing the web. Go on, try fiddling with Photoshop if you have it. Try even just to open up a program or move documents around. Try going somewhere that needs a password (on a mac you need a password to do anything). You don't need a mac to fully experience the pain of this experiment, just do it. Had to reinstall the operating system twice because we didn't figure out until after the first reinstall what was causing the problem (I reinstalled the tablet software and when I realized that that was what was doing it, I threw a tantrum and woke up everybody in the house.) And now it turns out we didn't have to reinstall the operating system, we could've just done this other fiddley thing that it seems apple computers can do at startup which the first tech support guy failed to mention.

So I've got my old tablet plugged in and it seems to be working okay (although the problem seemed to be sporadic so I'm not fully trusting in it yet) and I'm too scared to reinstall some important stuff because I'm afraid I might have to do it again later. I feel like I'm being punished for buying a mac. Even if it wasn't or isn't entirely Apple's fault, I still read this as a sign. Hell, if I woke up one morning and found my cats had widdled on my keyboard, I'd take that as a bad omen too. God hates macs, that's the only explanation. I might need to get a new tablet (it's still under warranty but now I have an errand to do when I don't have the time), I have to reinstall all my programs, I still have to call Wacom tech support, and I'm just a few mere hours away from loading the car and moving from North Carolina to Washington DC.

God hates macs, I'm pissed as hell, I'm throwing a whiny tantrum rant like a two-year-old, and I don't care because I'm too pissed as hell. Damn computers.