Men (and women) of fantasy fiction

Okay, time for fantasy guys! They wear a lot of black, it seems. There's probably a lot of significant authors I've missed, but I only wanted to focus on those I'd actually read. 

Incidentally, Robert E. Howard was dapper for a man who wrote books about sweaty barbarians.

Men of Science... Fiction

Wellllllllll it was an eventful couple of weeks since my last post, what with me suddenly nearly dying of something called infective endocarditis. It happens. Out of nowhere, seemingly. Such is life, which I still have, and will damn well make the most of every single day. Still in hospital, gonna be here for about 4 weeks, sooooooo... I may as well draw! Just so glad I still can. <3 Please folk, don't take any things for granted ever, fluke illnesses do happen and do leave you messed up. Life rocks, live it.

I drew some sci-fi authors! And HP Lovecraft because I love his creepy face. I've read stuff by all these guys and they're all awesome, but mainly I love how varied and eccentric authors look. You get the stuffed-suit kind, and then you get Neal Stephenson with his luxuriantly twisty beard. If I were a man, I would have such a beard. Men, consider it!

Anyway, enjoy these dudes. I think I'll do some fantasy ones next.

Tatton Park

Right now, I'm lucky enough to live really near to a place called Tatton Park. It's a thousand-acre deer park, and it's one of those places which makes me feel truly proud to be British. Now, the problem when you start talking about British pride is that people assume you're going to tattoo a St George's Cross on your forehead and start telling people where they can and can't live. That's not what I mean by pride, or Britain for that matter. Pride is celebration and appreciation, and Britain is a beautiful place made of oak trees, long grass and squelchy marshy ground you don't know is there till you step in it.

 

Coffee shop sketches

Hi guys! New blog, new adventures in the world of pen and paper. These days, I'm really working on trying new things and pushing my work into the places I'd like it to be. This seems like a good way to go about it.

So anyway, I spent Saturday morning drawing people in a coffee-shop. I love coffee-shops, they're like a playground for tiny human dramas, and everyone's quite alright with you sitting there quietly soaking them in from behind your sketchpad.

 

 

There's a little train-set which intermittently runs around the top of this cafe, and the little girl waited around with her sister for ten minutes for it to come round. When it finally did, she was looking the other way.

This man is called Georgie. I haven't spoken to him, but I'm sure he's the oldest man I've ever seen. He's always in the same corner of the same coffee shop, but the wonderful thing is how everybody knows him. It seems like literally anyone can walk in and suddenly they'll have known him for ten years and have lived next door and have this and that in common. As someone who's moved house every few years/months, when I see people like this it seems like they're an old oak tree, grown into the space they've lived in, shaped perfectly to fit.

Incidentally, though I do have a job, the term 'starving artist' still applies to me, in that I can never get served in coffee shops. I used to think this was bad service on the part of the café, but since then I've realised it is just me being partially invisible. Naturally, I'm far too British to make a fuss, so instead I have noticed myself developing a sort of of ritual dance by which I try to stare down passing waiters. No, it does not work.

That's it from me, and I'll be posting again soon. This was fun!