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breeden
ursulav

No More Ms. Nice Wombat

(I think I'm technically a Mrs, but despite several years of married status, this fact has not assimilated my brain, and when people ask for Mrs. Vernon, I look around aimlessly for my stepmother. "Mrs. Trevett" makes me go "Who? Where? What, now?")

Anyway. Long ago and far away, someone wrote me a nice letter asking if they could use my work in a signature tag, if they put up the copyright and the link. They were very polite, and I appreciate polite, and generally if people ask to use my art for non-commercial purposes and include a link, I say "Yeah, go ahead"--good will is inherently valuable and it's no skin off my teeth, nor has such an attitude had any apparent negative impact throughout my career. (I mean, I've lost count of the LJ icons, but I simply don't think I'm losing anything by it, and I'm flattered people like the stuff.) And the linky bits may eventually bear fruit, even if only one in a thousand who see it follow the link.

However.

A while later there came another such e-mail from another such group.

And another. And then another.

And yet another.

And now I get four or five of these bloody things a day.

Half of them I don't reply to, since I simply forget they're there and once something's off my scroll, it might as well be at the bottom of the Sargasso bearing witness to eel nookie. But I still get these e-mails almost as often now as I get offers to refinance my mortgage, and rather more often than I get letters from dying businessness in Zimbabwe. Not up there with penis enlargement or porn, mind you. But still, a not-insignificant amount, all of which require a reply, even though I've whittled my replies down to the three word "Sure, feel free."

Damnit. You try to be nice...

So now I dunno what the hell to do--ignore all future requests? Get a form letter saying "For Christ's sake, take my name off your list, I can't handle all these e-mails?" Cry a lot? Pray that eventually I'll have gone through every single bloody person in that particular hobby and they'll taper off? It's never any one person, it's just that somehow, the tag making community learned that I was a mellow artist, and now I'm getting buried under permission spam.

I don't care about the art use. My sales certainly have not suffered. But the e-mails are too much. They've hit critical mass.

Maybe I should just update my FAQ or something...

breeden
ursulav

No More Ms. Nice Wombat

(I think I’m technically a Mrs, but despite several years of married status, this fact has not assimilated my brain, and when people ask for Mrs. Vernon, I look around aimlessly for my stepmother. “Mrs. Trevett” makes me go “Who? Where? What, now?”)

Anyway. Long ago and far away, someone wrote me a nice letter asking if they could use my work in a signature tag, if they put up the copyright and the link. They were very polite, and I appreciate polite, and generally if people ask to use my art for non-commercial purposes and include a link, I say “Yeah, go ahead”–good will is inherently valuable and it’s no skin off my teeth, nor has such an attitude had any apparent negative impact throughout my career. (I mean, I’ve lost count of the LJ icons, but I simply don’t think I’m losing anything by it, and I’m flattered people like the stuff.) And the linky bits may eventually bear fruit, even if only one in a thousand who see it follow the link.

However.

A while later there came another such e-mail from another such group.

And another. And then another.

And yet another.

And now I get four or five of these bloody things a day.

Half of them I don’t reply to, since I simply forget they’re there and once something’s off my scroll, it might as well be at the bottom of the Sargasso bearing witness to eel nookie. But I still get these e-mails almost as often now as I get offers to refinance my mortgage, and rather more often than I get letters from dying businessness in Zimbabwe. Not up there with penis enlargement or porn, mind you. But still, a not-insignificant amount, all of which require a reply, even though I’ve whittled my replies down to the three word “Sure, feel free.”

Damnit. You try to be nice…

So now I dunno what the hell to do–ignore all future requests? Get a form letter saying “For Christ’s sake, take my name off your list, I can’t handle all these e-mails?” Cry a lot? Pray that eventually I’ll have gone through every single bloody person in that particular hobby and they’ll taper off? It’s never any one person, it’s just that somehow, the tag making community learned that I was a mellow artist, and now I’m getting buried under permission spam.

I don’t care about the art use. My sales certainly have not suffered. But the e-mails are too much. They’ve hit critical mass.

Maybe I should just update my FAQ or something…

Originally published at Tea with the Squash God. You can comment here or there.


breeden
ursulav

The Seductions of Paint

My studio is a lamia. Or a succubus. Or a siren. Or anyway, one of those mythical things that seduce you in and then eat your brain.

I was about to go walk over to the local Pakistani joint and grab lunch, and I had come to a good stopping point on this interior illo, saved the files, put on all my nice away messages, put my shoes on, and on the way out, glanced into my studio at the painting in progress and thought "Hmm, some white ink would fix that bit right up..." And then I had dumped out too much white ink, so of course I had to use it wherever it was needed, and it did fix that bit up, and that other bit, and hey, maybe that other bit too...

Most of an hour later, as for the third or fourth time I changed my rinse water and washed the brush out, I thought vaguely "Why are my feet making squelchy farting noises?"

Because I was wearing my sandals. And my feet were sweating profusely. Because I had turned the AC off. Because I had been going out to lunch. An hour ago.

My willpower is non-existent. I'll clean the brushes, dump out the water, put the paint away, and twenty minutes later I'll get 'em all out again, because I am the Muse's bitch.

Sigh.

breeden
ursulav

The Seductions of Paint

My studio is a lamia. Or a succubus. Or a siren. Or anyway, one of those mythical things that seduce you in and then eat your brain.

I was about to go walk over to the local Pakistani joint and grab lunch, and I had come to a good stopping point on this interior illo, saved the files, put on all my nice away messages, put my shoes on, and on the way out, glanced into my studio at the painting in progress and thought “Hmm, some white ink would fix that bit right up…” And then I had dumped out too much white ink, so of course I had to use it wherever it was needed, and it did fix that bit up, and that other bit, and hey, maybe that other bit too…

Most of an hour later, as for the third or fourth time I changed my rinse water and washed the brush out, I thought vaguely “Why are my feet making squelchy farting noises?”

Because I was wearing my sandals. And my feet were sweating profusely. Because I had turned the AC off. Because I had been going out to lunch. An hour ago.

My willpower is non-existent. I’ll clean the brushes, dump out the water, put the paint away, and twenty minutes later I’ll get ‘em all out again, because I am the Muse’s bitch.

Sigh.

Originally published at Tea with the Squash God. You can comment here or there.