I’ve been doodling a lot lately, and I really like how it compliments my writing. I’ve always doodled (claim to fame being a Tina Belcher Valentine’s Day Card), mostly for fun, during meetings or downtown at the bar.
“I have a note for you,” I said one afternoon, sliding a piece of paper to the disgruntled bartender. “Well, it’s actually for Brittany.”
He unfolded it, glanced at it, and immediately crumbled it up.
“HEY! That was for Brittany!” I exclaimed, as Brittany overheard, and chimed in.
“What was for me?”
“A doodle!”
“A doodle?! Of what!”
The bartender grumbled and walked away.
“I don’t know why he did that,” I shrugged.
“What was it of?” Brittany asked, her eyes sparkling.
“Oh, it was you, me and Rayna dancing around him telling him he sucks.”
Doodles have been a great outlet for humor, as well.
The other day, I had a great idea for a comic actually, and as I sat down to draw, something happened. Often times, when I sit down to right a blog post, everything just flows. Sure, occasionally I get caught up on something, but I either realize it’s not a good post, or just walk away from it in favor of another one.
But I really wanted to draw this comic. In my head, it was super funny. On paper, not so much.
My little doodle Missy fell flat. Whenever I penned a joke, it came off forced. It was as if whenever I put ink to paper, every ounce of magic, laughter and derpiness just jumped right back up into my pen.
It sucked.
I turned some music on, and tried to think of the ways I work through writer’s block. Yup, I usually just edit and re-edit until I get it right. That wasn’t going to work for doodles.
When’s the last time I had a really good article idea? I mused.
I thought back to the other day, when I was driving back from Rockland. I couldn’t find a decent radio station, and as I flipped through the static-y channels, I finally settled on an oldies station. I was in a semi serious mood, pondering about work and money, a saxophone starting blasting.
“Say, man!
Don’t walk ahead of that woman
Like she don’t belong to you!”
I laugh, turning Joe Tex a little louder. I started to bop my head a little as he sang, instructing the skinny leg girl in the song not to “worry about a doggone thing, a’tol.”
It loosened me up, and thinking about my ridiculous response to the song – shrugging my shoulders up and down, mouthing the lyrics I knew, and swinging my head in circles, I realized that in the car (and also, whilst doodling), I was just taking whatever I was doing too seriously.
There’s nothing that bombs my creativity quicker than me unintentionally putting pressure on myself by donning an imaginary beret and insisting to my silliness, “not now, I’m an artist.”
I’m not an artist. I’m just a funny little girl who likes to draw and make derby voices. I guess I’m kind of a… well, cartoon character.
