L. Ron Hubbard Presents Writers of the Future 34
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However, some prefer to work as an employee for a company because that simplifies many business issues. And on the artistic side, it may provide wonderful opportunities such as working with a team.
At this point, I should explain a bit about my background: I was born in Argentina and lost my father at the age of four. My mother worked all day to raise two children. I reached the age of eighteen well aware of the meaning of “economic deprivation.”
Despite that, in my career as a professional illustrator I have always chosen the more artistic and creative projects instead of the more profitable ones. Probably that’s because I was used to living a modest life, so money didn’t appeal to me more than the satisfaction of being creatively free, especially within the fantasy art field.
I’ve been a freelance illustrator since the age of twenty-one, which means that I haven’t had a set monthly income since then. However, I have always worked with passion to do my best on every piece, no matter the payment. For that reason, I was able to create a personal style with dragons. My work eventually found its path in the international market, and that means it turned out to be lucrative too.
Based on my personal experience, I give the following advice to young artists: Set your priority on the artistic facet instead of the economic side. This approach will always reward you.
Other more pragmatic recommendations I can give are: Be self-disciplined, learn from practice, improve your skills, experiment, search for the appropriate market, work hard, prepare a good portfolio and send it out to as many potential clients as you can.
For some reason, I have a strong tendency to focus on the less material aspects of art. For example, I love to explore my own imagination, playing with images created in my mind’s eye, storing them in my memory and exercising visualization. In fact, one of the things I like the most is to study creativity itself, since I think it is the essence of art and one of the biggest mysteries of humankind.
During long hours painting, I have many interesting thoughts and reflections. I write them down in a notebook along with lots of rough sketches. Some of the sketches become paintings and some of the notes eventually get published in a collection that I call Notebooks.
I would like to share a few of those notes here, for they reveal my inner thoughts on the artistic process:
I understand art as the act in which one applies the best of oneself by employing as much creativity as possible. I believe it to be an alliance between beauty and bliss.
But above all, it is an attitude.
I draw in order to remember. I feel that sometimes we forget we inhabit a sphere that travels through space rotating around other spheres.
We usually forget everything is very magical. I believe art to be the proper attitude that we should adopt when we are before so much magic.
•
I first organized my time by drawing on even-numbered days and writing on odd-numbered days. Faced with my inability to remember what day it was, I switched to drawing in the mornings and writing in the evenings. But I finally chose to put aside any type of planning, drawing and writing at the beckoning of inspiration. I learned to be very messy within my strict organization. And I am sometimes uncertain whether the idea that comes to me is to be captured in a drawing or by way of a written text.
Sometimes these texts get a bit more poetic, which is also a good way of explaining all these magical processes of creating fantasy art:
When I draw, something climbs up my spine, coiling itself around me and whistling. Something itches me in my bones and then pours under my tongue.
They could be electrical impulses or some sort of light that simply overcomes me.
But I’m inclined to think that what stirs inside of me when I draw is in fact particles of stars that merely want to return to their galaxy.
•
Imprisoned by a state of daydreaming, a very young girl looked at one of my drawings with special interest. Within the sparkle of her eyes, I suddenly discovered the same tiny stars that I possessed in my eyes while creating that drawing. I then realized that the most valuable purpose of my art is to spread that sparkle in the eyes of people.
•
When nothing comes to mind to draw, I implement a few tricks to fool my anxiety. For example: I pretend I am distracted and start playing with the pencil, making it doodle spirals and stars. With a little luck, the pencil finds its way and I just follow. The first lines look familiar because they come from muscular memory. They are shapes that time has recorded in my mind and that my hand draws automatically. I have to be patient with them and let them out. Once they have gone, I begin to stalk attentively. That means that I try to hunt any shape that seems interesting to me and extend it, enrich it, feed it. So when the time to daydream arrives, I am succumbed to a river of visions and sensations that begin to tell a tale. Finally, when the drawing has taken shape, all that remains is knowing when to stop.
•
I firmly believe that everyone is born with some sort of artistic talent. The problem is that most people don’t harvest it. What’s more, they don’t realize it even exists. And then, given the obligations of society, they end up working at something that is in no way related to that primitive talent and stray further from their mission. I daresay that therein lies the outlying problem of most human beings.
•
I can give some explanation for most of my drawings, but there are others on which I cannot even venture an opinion. They come from mysterious sources inside me that I do not even know about.
•
The artist learns to wait for magic. In the meantime, he lives with frustration and effort.
The artist nurtures beauty, pursues perfection, probes the abstract, and cherishes magic like the farmer cherishes the rain.
The artist has the vision and the daring; he relies on his eyes and hands.
Yet, he waits for the magic.
•
One day I said, “I’ll draw no more. Now I want to be a magician.” And when I made magic I realized that it was just like drawing.
Illusion
written by
Jody Lynn Nye
inspired by
Ciruelo’s Dragon Caller
* * *
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
A native Chicagoan, Jody Lynn Nye is a New York Times bestselling author of more than fifty books and 165 short stories. As a part of Bill Fawcett & Associates (she is the “& Associates”), she has helped to edit more than two hundred books, including forty anthologies, with a few under her own name. Her work tends toward the humorous side of sci-fi and fantasy.
Along with her individual work, Jody has collaborated with several notable professionals in the field, including Anne McCaffrey, Robert Asprin, John Ringo, and Piers Anthony. She collaborated with Robert Asprin on a number of his famous Myth-Adventures series, and has continued both that and his Dragons Wild series since his death in 2008.
Jody runs the two-day intensive writers’ workshop at DragonCon, and co-writes the fiction review column in Galaxy’s Edge magazine, edited by fellow WotF judge Mike Resnick.
About “Illusion,” she told us: “I love having something to inspire me when I write. I was delighted to have the opportunity to write a story based upon the splendid piece of artwork that forms the cover of this anthology, a fantasy painting by Ciruelo. It so happened that the subject matter dovetailed neatly with another fantasy series I have been working on. Instead of treating with the main character of that series, this story hearkens back decades to her employer, a great wizard—or so he seems.
“I started publishing professionally too early to participate in the Writers of the Future Contest, but I would probably have offered something like this for the judges’ consideration, heavy on world-building, but light and lively, with good characterization and serious matters at stake.”
A
BOUT THE ILLUSTRATOR
Ciruelo created Dragon Caller with his love for portraying human and dragon relationships. It was first published in his 2007 calendar. Unlike all of the other stories in this anthology, where the illustrations were commissioned for each story, here Jody Lynn Nye conceived her story based on Ciruelo’s illustration, which graces the cover of this Writers of the Future volume.
Illusion
Again!” The Regente of Enth clapped her hands with delight, like the little girl she used to be.
Pleased, Angelo smoothed his impressive silver beard and mustachios with a forefinger, and straightened his tall, T-shaped hat.
“You wouldn’t want the same spell over again, would you, your serenity?” the court magician asked. “Having a troupe of pixies come to dance for you is all very well, but they have their own duties and responsibilities to attend to.” As do the grandees and grandaas standing about your throne, he thought.
“Yes! I do love them so.” Zoraida squirmed into the enormous throne. Her heavy amber skirts and voluminous red cloak of office made her seem like a child playing dress-up. Only the jeweled circlet on her thick bronze hair seemed a comfortable fit.
Angelo regarded the young woman with affection. He liked to grant her wishes, to help take her mind off the heavy duties of the office that had been thrust upon her so recently. It didn’t matter, he supposed, as they were not real pixies anyhow. Very well, once more wouldn’t hurt.
He raised the tall silverwood staff in his left hand and brought the golden ferrule down on the stone floor with an impressive bang! Angelo always made certain he worked his wonders in a corner of the audience chamber where the rugs did not cover the floor. The noise was nowhere near as impressive if it was muffled by yards of woven silk. Once again, he stroked a hand over the whitstone and drew upon his imagination, fed by storybooks and the tales sung by troubadours. He felt the magic rise within him, like water bubbling in a well. He opened his soul to the beauty of creativity, funneling the ideas in his mind through his body, until streamers of color emerged from his eyes, his mouth, and the palms of his hands. Sight, sound and touch, the images formed, lifting his heart as they came into being. What seemed a wonder to others was no less a miracle to him, though he was its source.
From the very ground they stood upon, fluting arpeggios rose, visible as dancing wisps of colors, until they formed a landscape of both sound and sight. At a grand chord, the mists cleared, revealing tiny, perfectly-shaped beings whirling and leaping in a circle. As each faced the regente, they bowed to her, making gestures of respect to her with delicate hands. The music grew more intricate, adding the sound of instruments that Angelo had heard on his visits to the land of fairies and sprites. He had stopped summoning actual fae to the palace for the regente’s entertainment, as they had a tendency to help themselves to jewels from the royal treasury and anything else sparkly that caught their eye. If Zoraida realized the difference, she never mentioned it. Illusion could be its own reward.
The regente clapped her hands to the rhythm, or almost. Her talents, of swordswomanship, philosophy, and listening, did not include any for music. The courtiers present never dared to indicate that they noticed anything wrong. Zoraida had a temper, almost certainly one of the reasons why she had not yet chosen her first consort.
At the corners of the fairy dance, the colors began to run into one another, blue melting into orange and making a muddy brown. Angelo stroked his hand over the big oval whitstone at the top of his staff. The colors brightened, and the dancers leaped and twirled more merrily. The microscopic crumb of the mystic mineral that exploded under his palm was enough to sustain the dance for weeks on end, if need be.
Whitstones were rare, especially ones of the size he possessed. It had come from the hoard of a dragon who remained in his debt to that day. He fed the silver orb with his own energy and that summoned from earth and sky whenever he could, but that only rebuilt smaller morsels of it than he actually used. One day, he would almost certainly have to seek out another. A wizard whose talents were of a more active sort depleted the substance of her or his whitstone far more quickly than he did. Angelo was fortunate that Enth had been peaceful since before he had arrived, decades ago. A sinecure like this made his fellow magical practitioners green with envy. He couldn’t help but preen when visiting mages sneered over his growing school of noble apprentices, the wealth evident in his quarters, his magical accoutrements and his dress, and the leisurely life he led, making pretty pictures for his employer.
The third tune drew to a coda, and Angelo made the seeming fae turn to take one more bow to the regente as the pipes swirled one last time. Zoraida applauded so hard that her palms turned red. The rest of the court patted their hands softly, waiting for their ruler’s pleasure.
“Again!” The regente tapped the ground with the foot of her long scepter of office.
“No, no, your grace,” Angelo said, with an avuncular smile. “The pixies are weary. Let them rest.” He swept his staff high, and the entire phantasm vanished, leaving the audience room comfortably ordinary. The courtiers heaved a collective sigh of relief. Even the page sitting on the steps of the throne at the regente’s feet looked grateful.
“A marvel!” Zoraida crowed, beaming at him. “You are without a doubt the finest wizard in the world!”
Angelo bowed until his beard touched the hem of his ornate purple robe.
“I thank you, my liege.”
The young warrior queen twisted in the oversized throne, made for one of her long-ago ancestors who had six or eight times her bulk, and rucked up her full brocade skirts so she could draw a knee up to rest on the gilded and carved armrest.
“Now, I would have you relate one of your grand adventures,” Zoraida said, not quite willing to return to the business of reigning. “Tell us about the time you bested three giants who had been laying waste to that village in the north. Or your battle with the necromancer of Fillith! Your heroic exploits have always inspired me, my friend.”
Angelo cringed inwardly.
“My lady, the Grand Potestad has a number of requisitions for you to sign,” he said, gesturing toward that worthy, who had been shifting from foot to foot through the last illusion. “The minister of justice has cases she needs to bring before you. And the other ricohombres and ricahembras have been so patient, although I am certain that they loved the entertainment I provided for you.”
“Oh, all right,” Zoraida said, beckoning the nobles forward. Potestad Miguel de la Hora, Chancellor of the Exchequer, strode into the head of the queue, his pendulous belly leading the way.
Angelo watched the regente reluctantly resume her duties. She was so young! If only her dear father had not been so unlucky as to die before she had had time to gain some small experience ruling a province. She would have more confidence in her role, and her reputation as a diplomat and leader would have equaled that of her abilities in the field. Reputation was everything, far above ability.
“Your serenity,” de la Hora began in his sonorous voice. “Trade with Moris has not been as profitable of late.…”
“Your serenity!”
Forgoing all dignity, Condestable Inez de Donunza hurtled into the room. The chief minister cast her ceremonial sword belt into the hands of the nearest man-at-arms and pushed past the rest of the nobles to kneel on the steps at Zoraida’s feet.
“What is wrong?” the regente asked, reaching for her friend’s hand to help her up. The minister sprang to her feet. Her usual neat braids bounded in her agitation.
“What is wrong?” the condestable echoed. “A scout has just returned from the eastern border. Enth is being invaded! The sky to the east is full of flying snakes, each with a warrior on its back! Armies swarm over the mountain passes beneath them.”
At her words, the rest of the court burst into a hubbub of alarm.
The East? Angelo recoiled in dismay. The Solognians!
Enth had had many decades of peace, based upon Constantino’s skills as a general and negotiator. Zoraida, his eldest, was just of an age to begin to consolidate her power with diplomatic ties when her father had died. She was entitled to take three consorts. None of her suitors to date was, well, suitable. The most likely candidate, Francour of Sologne, the realm to the East, had a temper almost but not quite as terrible as Zoraida’s. The few times that their parents had put them together as children, they had fought like angry weasels. Francour had emerged with more bite marks, which the heiress of Enth counted as victory. Marrying for love was never a consideration, but profound dislike and hatred did make diplomatic ties difficult. Francour remained on the list, though not seriously considered. A pity, as Sologne had many advantages that would add to Enth’s influence across the world, and the eastern realm could have used the infusion of hard currency that Enth possessed. Mweko, a prince of Moris, the realm across the narrow sea to the south, was only a third son, though the favorite of his queen mother. Moris had a great navy of trading ships that ranged over the world. Mweko was a delightful companion, charming and handsome, and Zoraida liked him enormously, but Angelo had been told in confidence that he did not seek marriage with a woman. The laird of Escotio, the cold northlands, had all but told Constantino that Zoraida’s first and principal consort would be his second son, Amish. Amish was nine years old.
Francour looked like the only reasonable local candidate, but Zoraida always sent his emissaries back without answers. It seemed that Francour had stopped waiting for Zoraida to come around to an economic necessity and meant to take Enth’s resources by force.
Zoraida sprang to her feet, her dark eyes blazing.
“Call the army! Summon all of my generals!”
“General Rafello is on his way, my liege,” de Donunza said. “He only halted to call for the castle to be secured.”
“We must protect our people,” Zoraida said. She cast about for a moment, then beckoned Angelo close. “My friend, you are needed.”