For reference, this is what she’s talking about :

In conclusion: Fanfic is important, there’s nothing wrong with writing or enjoying it and the cast and crew of Good Omens are a gift.

“i would die for you” this, “i’d walk through fire for you that”

what about “i’d live for you” romances? what about “i never thought i’d be worth the work it would take to piece myself together”?

what about “i don’t believe i’m worth it, but for you i’ll try”

Does anyone else feel, like, a weird inhibition against starting new TV shows?  Like, there are shows I want to watch but when I think about sitting down to start it something in me goes “no you can’t just do that.”  What am i waiting for?  I feel like I need to prepare?  Brain:  You have to wait.  Me:  Wait for what???  Brain:  WAIT

I found out recently that it’s due to not having enough emotional or mental space to process something new. Got too much going on in your own head/real life already.

Me: I would like to experience this new thing.

My Brain:… no.

Me: Why not?

My Brain: Can’t do it. Not today.

Me: Whyyyyyyyy?

My Brain: Because we are processing at capacity and one more stream is going to crash the whole system. 

Me, aloud: I’m not in the mood to try (new thing) right now.

THIS IS A REAL THING??? ARE YOU SHITTING ME?!!?

Wow. that explains… so much

No wonder I can barely start new anime or cartoons anymore.

This also can be a very common issue for people with ADHD or other conditions that cause emotional dysregulation, even if you’re not actively Going Through Something at the time. Like, the knowledge that it’s going to evoke an emotional response in you means you’re more likely to keep putting it off because you have trouble returning to an equilibrium after an emotional spike. Like, shows that I have been REALLY INTO, like SUPER INVESTED, with lots of feelings involved – I have to take breaks between new episodes of it and go back to watching things I’ve already watched before that I know how they end, and I’m prepared for the emotions that go with them, to give myself a break from the emotional spikes and exhaustion of being surprised – even pleasantly – by the media I’m watching.

consider: teenagers aren’t apathetic about everything they’re just used to you shitting all over whatever they show excitement about

Teen: *gets a job*

“I GOT THE JOB!”

Parents: Well, when I was your age, I already had 5 jobs and was supporting my family

Teen: *gets all A’s*

“I worked really hard!”

Parents: Well, of course you did, this is the expectation, not a celebration.

probably why so many teens take to social media where they can enthusiastically share their interests and achievements and get positive feedback that their parents never gave

A LITTLE LOUDER FOR THE PEOPLE IN THE BACK

This hit hard

I remember once, when I was in my early 20s, I was an afternoon supervisor at my job, and I worked with mostly teenagers, and the one day this one kid, who was like 15, was bored so I suggested he could clean out the fridge. He did and when he was done I said he did a good job.

After that, this kid was cleaning out the fridge at least once a week, and I was like, “why are you always cleaning the fridge?” Like, I didn’t mind, but it seemed odd. And he said, “one time I cleaned the fridge and you said I did a good job. I wanted to make you proud of me again.”

Literally, I changed the entire way I interacted with teenagers after that. I actually got a package of glitter stars and I would stick them on their nametags when they did a good job, and they loved it.

My manager had commented on how hard these kids work and I said, “they’re starved for positive feedback. They go to school all day then come to work all evening and no one appreciates it because it’s expected of them, but they’re still kids. They need positive feedback from adults in their lives.”

Like, everyone likes feeling appreciated. Everyone likes being complimented and having their efforts be noticed. Another coworker (who was a mother of teenage children), hated that I did this, and said they were too old to be rewarded with stickers, but like… it wasn’t about the stickers. The stickers were just a symbol that their effort was noticed and appreciated. I was just lucky that I learned this at a time when I was still young enough to remember what it was like to be a teenager. I was only 2 years out of highschool at that point and highschool is fucking hard. People forget this as they get older, but ask anyone and almost no one would ever want to go back and do it again, but they expect kids to suck it up because they’re young so they should be able to do school full time, plus homework, and work, and maintain a healthy social life, and sleep, and spend time with family, and do chores and help out at home, and worry about college and relationships and everything else, and then just get shit on all the time and treated like they’re lazy and entitled. And then they wonder why teenagers are apathetic.

For a german exam I had to argue against an article that was essentially „kids these days, they don’t care about anything and are constantly on their phones“ and really it was the easiest essay I‘ve ever written.

Teens don’t talk to adults bc adults only ask „so, how‘s school“ to then interrupt them two sentences in. And because they can’t engage in a conversation about buying houses and working in a bank. I would’ve loved to talk about philosophy and politics and history with family the way I did with friends and in class but because I was young no one took what I had to say seriously.

And no, teens aren’t always on their phone. They’re on their phone when they’re bored. You think I‘m on social media when I‘m with my friends? When I‘m talking about something I‘m interested in?

Maybe the reason kids are so distant and always on their phone during family parties and the like is because you‘re failing to engage and include them.

Whoop there it is

When you respect kids, they really respond and learn from you. But if you treat kids like “theyre just a kid, what do they know??” then you’ll never find out.

As a Disneyland Cast Member, I’ll add my own experience onto this –

Very frequently, when I first speak to a child while I’m at work, they’ll kind of withdraw and act uncomfortable and shy. Their parents will then rather frequently tell them to not be shy and try to coax them to talk to me – whenever that happens, I always, without fail, politely dissuade the parents from pressuring them.

“I’m a stranger,” I’ll tell the kid’s parents. “I don’t blame them for not talking to me – if they were anywhere else, they’d have the right idea, to not immediately trust me.”

I cannot tell you how many times I’ve seen that same kid – simply after hearing their initial reaction being validated, instead of reproached – immediately open up to me after that. I also cannot tell you how many times that child and I would go on to start a friggin’ marathon conversation, and I got to hear all about how great their day was or what their favorite Disney movies were or what rides they liked and didn’t like or how much they like a certain Disney character or song…all from me validating that initial feeling and showing genuine interest in what they had to say.

This isn’t just young children, either. I will always remember being positioned outside the Animation Academy one day and starting up a conversation with a young lady, perhaps 12 or 13, who joined the line with her father a full 25 minutes before the class was supposed to start. Now keep in mind, we do a drawing class every 30 minutes: there was no one else in line at that point, and no one else joined the girl and her father in line for a full fifteen minutes. So I could tell pretty quickly that this girl was very emotionally invested in getting a good spot for the drawing class: a conclusion all the more bolstered by the fact that she had a notebook under her arm. I asked her if she was an artist – she said yes, but seemed uncomfortable at the question, so I skipped even asking her if I could see her work, instead admitting that I myself wasn’t very good at art, but that I’m trying to get better and that I love the history of Disney animation. On the screens around us was video footage of different Disney concept art and animation reels, so I pointed one of them out (for Snow White) and asked if she knew the story behind the making of the movie. Upon confirming that she didn’t, I proceeded to get down on the floor so I could sit next to her and her father and dramatically tell the whole story of how “Uncle Walt” created the first full-length animated motion picture, even though everyone and their mother thought he was an idiot for even trying, and how the film ended up becoming the first Hollywood blockbuster. After the story was over, the girl’s father said that his daughter really wanted to be an animator when she grew up, and she finally felt comfortable enough to open her notebook and show me some of her artwork. It was wonderful! Every sketch had such character and you could tell how much work she put into it! And I could tell how much telling her that – and sharing that moment with her, where we got to connect over something we both really enjoyed – had meant. And after the class was over, she sought me out to show me what she and her father had drawn – and sure enough, hers was great! (Her father’s was too, really. XD)

People, kids and teens included, love sharing what they love and how they feel with others. You just have to give them the chance to show it.

A LITTLE LOUDER FOR THE PEOPLE IN THE BACK!

-~-

I feel like I am obliged to add one more thing: don’t ever think that the kids won’t feel your unspoken judgements cause they do!

I felt always like a ‘problem’ in my family, until I was about sixteen, I got this teacher who was litterally the first to tell I was worthy. He changed my life up till this day.

Also how do grown ups imagine how ‘we’ will ever learn to engage in conversations with adults properly if you don’t teach us?

This post is

Everything

I told one of my new coworkers (who is 26) that he was doing really well and that I was proud of him and his progress. I thought he was going to start crying for how quietly he said “really?”. 

Positive feedback makes the biggest difference to everything.

You are worthy, even when you don’t feel like it.

you are allowed to be proud of yourself for things that might seem small to other people.

Story Time: Get a load of what happened to me at Starbucks today.

There’s a running joke among people who know me personally that I unwittingly go out in public with a sign on my forehead stating “I Am Non-Threatening. Come Talk To Me.” Because if there’s a chance a bizarre conversation with a total stranger is going to happen, I’m typically the person it happens to.

Some context: I have been pretty darn sick this week. (It’s not Coronavirus, don’t worry.) Since the work in my queue for my day job is comprised entirely of audio narration right now, and I currently sound like a waterlogged Demi Moore, I haven’t been able to work these last couple of days. As a result, I’ve been using my down time to knock out as much of Manu’s redesign as possible. Today, to ensure I didn’t spend the day languishing in sinus misery, I medicated the crap out of myself and took Manu to the Starbucks down the block from my son’s day care.

I hit the bathroom, then picked an empty table, but as soon as I sat down with my venti Comfort Tea and started tweaking the inks on my iPad, I felt the eyes of the man next to me looking over my shoulder.

When I looked up, he had his phone out. “I’m sorry,” he said (in a thick accent I couldn’t place geographically), “I don’t want to disturb. I notice you art. You are artist!”

I tried to smile. “Yes, I’m... Well, I’m trying to be,” I croaked.

He leaned in, like he was sharing a secret.

“I am artist, too.”

He stuck out his hand.

I gently took it, grateful for the bathroom trip I just took in which I washed the scourge off of my fingers.

“Can I?” he asked, holding his phone up.

“Take a picture? Uh... sure,” I said. It’s not like he would be able to steal Manu out from under me or anything, I figured. The panel I was tweaking was magnified out to Guam.

“I am artist. Architect and Designer,” he clarified while he steadied his phone over my iPad. “I am Ilker. What is your name?”

“I’m Venessa” I said, trying to be polite. This, I thought warily, is precisely how I get myself into trouble. I’m too damn nice.

“You know, I come to America twenty years ago from Turkey...”

I put down my stylus. This was going to be a while.

“I like Turkey,” he explained. “I like the country and I like the people. But I am artist. I am not... religious man.”

I nodded.

“I told my wife I was going to go to America and she said, “what are you going to do? You don’t have job! You don’t have money! No Visa!” And I said, “I am artist and architect. I will paint and sell my paintings.

“So I come to America alone. To New York City. I sit outside, and I paint. And people, they liked my paintings. They bought them. This one for $30, that one for $50.

“One day, a man comes over to me and he say, “I like your painting. I see you are also architect.” And he gives me his number and asks me to go to meeting at his office. Because he wants to offer me a job. He starts to talk about a building contract.

“I tell him I don’t know anything about contracts. I have no Visa. I am not American citizen. But he says, “That’s okay. I will take care of everything. You will have nothing to worry about.” And this man, he gave me a job. $173,000 a year. And my wife, he gave her a job too. She was project assistant. I bring her and my two daughters over from Turkey.”

“Wow,” I said, not fully believing the veracity of what sounded like a full-on immigration fairy tale.

“Here,” said Ilker, unlocking his phone and opening up his Facebook app. “I show you my work.” He paused and looked up at me. “I am interrupting. You don’t mind?”

At this point, I was invested. I had to see. Because whatever he was about to show me would either prove or disprove this yarn he was spinning. “Please,” I said, gesturing for him to go ahead.

He opened his photos and my jaw dropped. His work... was UNREAL.

“This is building I designed on Madison Ave.... And this one in Chelsea...”

Holy crap. I had just been to Chelsea with my sister last month on a trip to see a broadway show. I had crossed the intersection of the building he was, at this moment, telling me he designed.

He flipped through more buildings. These, he’d designed in Washington, DC. In Bethesda. In Arlington. All beautiful, streamlined, modern structures I had visited and parked my car in front of. He told me he did much of his concept work freehand. That he worked exclusively in natural media. His preferred media was pen, ink, watercolors, and chalks.

Between photos of his wife and daughters, he went on to show me photos from the RUSSIAN EXHIBITION OF HIS ARCHITECTURE ARTWORK.

Y’all, I was stunned. I couldn’t believe the talent I was sitting next to. Scattered among these gloriously rendered images of some of the most beautiful building concepts I’d ever seen were paintings of scenes in Central Park, the National Mall, and nudes from a life-drawing session he attends from time to time.

When he was done flipping through his phone, he looked at me and smiled. “I hope you don’t mind that I interrupt you. I show you all this because what you are doing is very good. And you should be encouraged. To draw is to make beauty.”

I nodded, a lump in my throat. “Thank you,” I managed. “Your work is astonishing. I don’t even know what to say. What is your name again?”

He held out his hand once more. “Ilker Kocahan,” he said. “I am getting more coffee. Can I get you one?”

I looked at my still-full venti cup. “No thank you. But here, please take my card.”

He held my dinky business card like I’d handed him a treasure and thanked me.

Then Ilker got his coffee, and left the coffee shop.

At some point in his ramblings he talked about America as a place of dreams. How he credits this country with helping him rise to the top of his field where he is now able to sell his paintings for $800-$1000 a piece now that he’s retired. My heart ached to hear him talk about that, knowing how our leadership’s positions on immigrants have taken such a dark and horrifying turn.

Imagine the buildings and museums and public places that would never have been if a business man in the park hadn’t lifted up a Turkish painter who spoke little English.

And now that painter was paying it forward on me.

I still feel pretty darn sick. I’ve still got body aches and a nose that has taken the rest of my face hostage.

But today was a really good day. And I just wanted to share it with you in case you are looking for reasons to keep drawing/painting/dancing/writing. It all counts and it is all good.

If you would like to see Ilker Kocohan’s work, please click here.

UPDATE TO THIS STORY! I would have posted this sooner, but quarantine has had the unexpected effect of zapping all my alone-time...

As luck would have it, I saw Ilker one last time before my area received the mandate to start social distancing. I came into the Starbucks to work on the “Simon Is On the Ground” comic while waiting to pick up my kid from day care, and there he was, happily chatting with the Starbucks manager, who gifted him with a Starbucks hat while I ordered my tea.

A week had passed since our first meeting, so I wasn’t sure he’d recognize me. Lo and behold, as I turned the corner, I caught his eye, and he waved at me. This time, I asked if I might sit with him, and he warmly offered the seat beside him.

While I settled in, he told me that his project was being delayed and that he was going to leave the area and fly home before COVID-19 could make it impossible to travel. The hat was for his wife, whose only understanding of Starbucks was that Ilker really liked the coffee.

As one might expect, we immediately fell into another conversation about art, except this time, I eagerly abandoned my work to hear him talk.

And friends, did I ever get a master class.

He pulled up a painting on his phone which he’d sold for $800. It was a life drawing in ink and watercolor of a woman in a demure gesture, barely detailed and colored in but for her rose-tinted lips and the shadow cast across her neck. He said he felt sad that he’d sold it because he really loved how it came out.

“This is no detailed like yours,” he said, comparing his painting to my panel of Simon and Baz. “Mine is simple. But in a few strokes, I can capture the life of the lady.”

He took his napkin, turned it over, and pulled a pen out of his chest pocket. “Look there,” he said, pointing to a man sitting a few tables away. He began to scribble away on the napkin, lines and lines and more lines. “You see,” he murmured as he ran his pen over the napkin, “I can, with speed, capture the man. I don’t have hours to ask him to sit. I must let go of the planning.”

In seconds, the man across the room took shape on the napkin in a series of confident if also messy lines. It was incredible to watch.

I could instantly see what he meant. He had not produced a photorealistic version of this person on the napkin. But he had captured the man’s essence. The aura of a real person sitting contemplatively with his coffee while reading the Washington Post. I could feel the life of the drawing radiate from the paper.

(When he was done, to my horror, he crumpled up the napkin.)

I shyly mentioned that I’ve been working hard on my own gesture drawing, but had a long way to go, so he asked to see my sketchbook.

I mean... is there even a word in the English language to describe the combination of dread and embarrassment that precedes showing an art master your crap-ass sketchbook that no one sees but you? I didn’t know what to do with myself as he sat there and flipped through the pages.

Eventually, he nodded approvingly and said, “Okay! Is good. But this is sketchbook like every other.” He gestured at the page. “Where are you?”

I was lost for how to respond, but lucky for me, he’s a talkative guy seemingly incapable of awkward silences.

“The world needs to see you in the lines,” he explained. “Someone can look at my work and know, ‘that painting is from Ilker Kocahan.’ You need to draw more and more so that when people look at your drawings, they will know: this work is Venessa’s work.” Then he shrugged and said, “And who knows. I will maybe see you in two years at this Starbucks, and by then, your drawings will be truly yours.”

I’ve shared this story with some close friends who took mild offense on my behalf at his observations, but I really think it took sitting there watching him draw to understand exactly what he was talking about.

Ilker Kocahan has no imposter syndrome. He is supremely confident in every possible way where his art is concerned. The lines that flowed from his pen were fueled by his soul, not his brain. I didn’t think artists like him existed anymore until I was sitting there looking over his shoulder while he scribbled a man into existence, like it was nothing. When I asked if he plots out the perspective on his building sketches in advance, he shook his head no and doodled this on my cake pop wrapper while he rambled on about the components he likes to include in his architecture concepts:

(Don’t worry. I kept it.)

So when he talked about “finding me” in my sketches, I really think he could sense—by the light scratch of the pencil, the trace evidence on the paper of my erasing and failed attempts—my own lack of confidence, my second guessing and self-doubt. My desire to be as good as other artists instead of my desire to express myself.

And in that sense, everything he was saying about my sketchbook was correct. He urged me to get off the iPad as often as possible. To sketch with ink, which is riskier because you can’t erase it, and in that way, give myself no choice but to commit to the lines.

The conversation turned to lighter things after that. He’s apparently an extremely talented basketball player who loves hanging out with his wife and kids. His daughters are both designers. He thinks quirky viral videos are the best thing about the internet. (I agreed.) He’s weak for New York pizza.

Eventually, he bought me a refill for my tea and asked if I would meet him again in a couple of days so he could talk to me about my artwork and help me with my sketching. He even added me as a Facebook friend. When I left the Starbucks to pick up Colin, I was so excited and overwhelmed and grateful to the universe for bringing me into his acquaintance, I texted everyone in my family about it.

But as fate would have it, that night, the local government released its mandate regarding social distancing. He’s likely in Belarus right now with his wife.

I won’t lie and say I’m not devastated that I lost the chance to be his student for an afternoon. But the impression these coffee shop chats left on me was profound. I think about it all the time. For one who struggles with feeling like the artist version of Pinocchio waiting around for permission to be a real boy, it makes all the difference in the world to linger in the huge, unstoppable energy of someone who lives without an inner critic.

I hope I get to see him again after the quarantine is over. I’d love to see if I can fulfill Ilker’s prophecy and meet back at that Starbucks in two years with a different sketchbook in tow. One that I can hand over knowing without doubt or trepidation that anyone looking for me in the work need look no further than the bold stroke of my hand.

Taken the last time we chatted:

Show some respect, people.

THANK YOU

The story of Balto is interesting. He led a team of sled dogs across the Alaskan wilderness in the dead of winter with diphtheria antitoxins to stop an outbreak in Nenana Alaska. Diphtheria is a deadly infectious disease that could wipe out a third of a town’s population. It is mostly unknown to the public today because of vaccines. Balto’s body is preserved in the Cleveland Museum of Natural History.

He’s a big hero of mine!

Let’s not forget Togo! Who, at 12 years old during the serum run, lead his team 200 miles through much more dangerous conditions during the first leg of the journey before Balto ran the last 55-mile stretch.

Togo and Balto didn’t bust their asses for dying children for you to turn around and not vaccinate your damn kids

you’re allowed to have emotions that aren’t positive!!! you’re allowed to feel angry or jealous or sad or frustrated or annoyed. emotions are normal and healthy, but it’s up to you to decide what to do with them.

content creators who keep on editing smaller fandoms despite the fact your edits only get a handful of notes: i see you, i love you, i appreciate you

while i don’t necessarily agree with people who are taking this time to focus on fictional shows and movies more than they’re focusing on, like, actual living black people, i do think if you wanna go that route, A LOT of y’all need to examine how you treat black characters. not poc characters — specifically BLACK characters. because when it comes to black characters, a lot of y’all say the same things: “oh i just can’t connect with them” or “their story just isn’t interesting to me” or “it’s not my fault!! maybe if those evil writers gave them more screentime!!” and honestly, all of that is bullshit because i have witnessed a lot of you stan non-black characters with MUCH less to go on. i’m not saying you have to stan every single black character in every single fandom you’re in (hell, i don’t even do that) but i think if you’re gonna take this current climate and use it to bury your head in fandom, ask yourself why your standards for what makes a “worthy character” are always higher for black characters than they are for everyone else

Daddy’s at the food store, Mummy’s out of town,

She’s working at the hospital since Rhona came to town,

Hide away, hide away, Miss Rhona’s come to town,

Hide away, hide away, she’s come to take us down.

Miss Rhona’s at the doorstep, I’ll keep 6 feet away,

But Grandma needs the paper, I’ll take her some today,

Hide away, hide away, Miss Rhona’s come to stay,

Hide away, hide away, we can’t come out to play.

But Grandma needs the paper, I’ll take her some today,

And here’s a note from Rhona, she wanted me to say,

Hide away, hide away, keep 6 feet away,

Hide away, hide away, she took us down today.

[Image ID: Tumblr user @neanderthyall says in the notes, “I thought that 6 feet was kind of a double meaning. Like six feet away to stop the spread, but when people die they’re six feet underground, and its six feet of the dirt that keeps you apart. Like ‘Hide away, hide away, even though it hurts Hide away, hide away, or the six feet will be dirt’.” End ID.]

HI DON’T LEAVE THIS IN THE NOTES THAT’S ACTUALLY BRILLIANT

I’ve taken the liberty of expanding the lyrics slightly and coming up with a tune:

Daddy’s at the food store, Mummy’s out of town, She’s working at the hospital since Rhona came to town, Hide away, hide away, Miss Rhona’s come to town, Hide away, hide away, she’s come to take us down.

Miss Rhona’s at the doorstep, I’ll keep 6 feet away, But Grandma needs the paper, I’ll take her some today, Hide away, hide away, Miss Rhona’s come to stay, Hide away, hide away, we can’t come out to play.

I need to see the sunlight, I’ve not been out in days And here’s a note from Rhona, she wanted me to say, Hide away, hide away, keep 6 feet away, Hide away, hide away, she took us down today

The days all run together, I haven’t changed my shirt We may be getting restless, but keep on the alert Hide away, hide away, even though it hurts Hide away, hide away, or the six feet will be dirt

@billpottsismygf’s extended version. A beautiful singing voice 🎶☺️

As planned I’ve extended this even further and re-recorded it with the new lyrics and a guitar part; it’s also a bit better quality. It’s so cool that so many different versions of this song have sprung up already! I recommend having a scroll through them all on @jus-tea​​‘s tumblr.

(Em)Daddy’s at the (B7)food store, (Em)Mummy’s out of (B7)town, She’s (Em)working at the (B7)hospital since (Em)Rhona (B7)came to (Em)town, (Am)Hide away, hide away, Miss (Em)Rhona’s come to town, (Am)Hide away, (Em)hide away, she’s come to (B7)take us (Em)down.

Miss Rhona’s at the doorstep, I’ll keep six feet away, But Grandma needs the paper, I’ll take her one today, Hide away, hide away, Miss Rhona’s come to stay, Hide away, hide away, we can’t come out to play.

I’m missing all my friends, though we keep in touch by phone, I’m learning what it is to truly be alone, Hide away, hide away, even though you moan, Hide away, hide away, or we’ll be lying prone.

My love she says she misses the twinkle of my eyes, But Rhona stalks the streets and to meet would be unwise, Hide away, hide away, we hear the desperate cries, Hide away, hide away, or see the bodies rise.

I feel myself a-coughin’, I haven’t got a mask, It’s work or die for me, though, so who am I to ask, Hide away, hide away, Miss Rhona’s on the task, Hide away, hide away, she’s come for me at last.

I need to see the sunlight, I’ve not been out in days, And here’s a note from Rhona, she wanted me to say, Hide away, hide away, keep 6 feet away, Hide away, hide away, she took us down today.

The days all run together, I haven’t changed my shirt, We may be getting restless, but keep on the alert, Hide away, hide away, Miss Rhona’s quite the flirt, Hide away, hide away, her touch is not inert.

Hide away, hide away, even though it hurts, Hide away, hide away, or six feet will be dirt.

you absolutely nailed the slightly ominous yet catchy tune for this, great job!