Saturday, 12 August 2017

Guest Author Vashti Quiroz-Vega. 4Q Interview & An Excerpt

The Scribbler is pleased to have Vashti as our guest this week. It is her second visit to the SBS. She is an accomplished author and an award winning blogger. On her first visit she shared a short story - A Time to Mourn and a Time to Dance. If you missed it you can go here 

This week she has been kind enough to share her thoughts in the 4Q Interview as well as an excerpt from her just-released novel - The Fall of Lilith

****Until the 15th of August, Vashti is offering her novel for the crazy low price of $0.99.  Go here!
 

4Q: You recently shared a cover reveal for your latest work. Tell us about The Fall of Lilith.

VQ: The Fall of Lilith is an epic tale with dark elements about angels for an adult audience (18+). It is the first installment of my Fantasy Angels Series. The characters in this story are angels depicted in a very unique way. It is a story of many twists, surprises and a bit of controversy.

Structurally, The Fall of Lilith is divided internally into two books, BOOK I – Heaven and BOOK II – Earth in one volume, so you get two books for the prize of one.

This is the BLURB

 

“I merely assisted you in doing what you desired all along.”

 

So says Lilith, the most exquisite of the angels. The two most important pledges an angel makes to God are those of obedience and celibacy, and dire consequences await any who break their oaths.

At first, the angels are happy in their celestial home, learning and exploring together. As they grow older, though, Lilith begins to question these pledges, which now seem arbitrary and stifling. Her challenge of the status quo leads to disagreement, jealousy, and strife among her peers. As the arguing and acrimony grow, lines are drawn and sides are chosen. Is war inevitable?

Filled with robust characters, incredible landscapes, and exciting action, The Fall of Lilith is an epic tale of seduction, betrayal, and revenge.

Free Will involves asking difficult questions and making hard choices, choices that require strength and sacrifice. These decisions can tear apart friendships and cause rifts between allies.

 They can even threaten the foundations of Heaven.


 

4Q: What is it about the supernatural that inspires you?

VQ: I grew up in a religious home, attended private school and went to church regularly with my parents. I read many religious books. I also read many fairy tales and mythology books. From a very young age I was intrigued by supernatural beings, especially angels and I often wondered what they were like, since the bible doesn’t say much about them. The combination of all of this is what inspired me to write The Fall of Lilith.
 

4Q: Please share a childhood memory or anecdote.

VQ: I began reading, writing and storytelling at an early age. I remember making comic books and selling them for a quarter in elementary school. My History teacher caught me; she gave me a look and asked me what I was doing. When I showed her the comic book I had made she looked through it and told me to wait until after class to sell it and then she told me to increase the prize because I was selling it too cheap. Ha, ha!
 

4Q: Please tell us where you are most comfortable writing your stories and what does the near future hold for Vashti Quiroz-Vega.

VQ: I enjoy setting up my laptop on the dinning room table. It’s a nice open area and I have a great view of my back yard (I live on a golf course).

Right now I’m busy trying to spread the word about The Fall of Lilith. I am also working on the 2nd instalment of my Fantasy Angels Series tentatively called, Dracúl, which follows where The Fall of Lilith ends.
 
 
 
 
An excerpt from The Fall of Lilith.

Before He created the universe, God was present. Alone and bored in Heaven, He decided to create angels––celestial beings to serve as companions. When God formed them, He made them perfect. He then endowed them with free will so they might choose their own way, making them somewhat unpredictable––and more interesting.  

There are three realms of Heaven: Heaven Most High where God resides, Metá Heaven, and Floraison, the lowest realm of Heaven where God placed the angels. Different dimensions separate these realms and only God traveled between them as He pleased. 

The angels were child-like when God first made them. A delicate brilliance emanated from within each one. They were formed with two small white wings, which carried them across the vast expanse of Floraison quickly and without much effort. God clothed the angels because He desired to show distinction between the superior celestial beings and the other creatures that roamed the lowest realm of Heaven. There were many strict rules in God’s system of law, as He held angels at higher standards than any other creature. The two most important vows of an angel were obedience and celibacy. 

Although the young angels bore many similarities early on, they developed distinct personalities and traits due to their free will. God also promised each angel one or more special ability, which in time they would develop and learn to control. What divine skill they would acquire and when was as individual as they were.  

There was no need for a sun, moon, or stars to give Floraison light. God’s splendor lit the lowest realm, and the skies were beautiful beyond compare. There was no true darkness where the angels lived. In Floraison’s unit of time there was brillante, when the light was at its most intense and nightglow when at its dimmest. There were many trees and meadows adorned with colorful flowers that emitted fragrances evoking happiness and vigor. Magnificent creatures abounded, large and small––perfect in every way and pleasing to the senses. Some of these creatures were prototypes for beings God created on different planets, and others were unique to Floraison.  

The River of Life, a pure river with crystalline healing waters, flowed between realms and proceeded from God’s throne room. The chamber was accessed through a portal that led to Metá Heaven where God’s presence could be reached. Only by His expressed permission could one cross this portal. This hall was aglow with the most exquisite light ever seen, and it was in the throne room God passed laws and judgments.  

There were fruit trees, root vegetables, bush berries, and many more edible delights in Floraison, but the angels did not require food. These delicacies existed to teach them self-discipline since these foods were delicious, producing energy and much pleasure. They were only allowed to partake of the food during celebrations and after strenuous workouts. It required God’s consent. The young angels spent their early days getting to know one another and learning about God’s laws, nature, animals, the cosmos, and themselves.  

Lilith and Michael delighted in their home, for Floraison was exquisite and full of joy, most of the time. 

“I accept rules because they establish guidelines for action and conduct,” Michael said with a solemn expression. “Rules create stability, discipline, and promote safety. Could you imagine what Beelzebub would be like had he no rules to follow?” Lilith glanced at Michael, the corners of her lips fighting a smile, her eyebrows slightly raised. Michael’s mouth twitched and soon they both burst into laughter. 

 “Beelzebub would be a complete mess without rules. I know that,” Lilith said. “But still, I am not fond of the many rules set by God for our kind. You are an upholder while I am a questioner.” 

Michael puckered his brow. “How could one question God?” 

Lilith ignored his question. “I cannot wait for the day I discover the divine talents He has promised. I hope my abilities are godlike.” Perceiving the power of God, evident in all things, awakened in her mind an aspiration that consumed her. She was fired by the desire for divine power. 

Michael looked at her sideways. “You have always told me that you longed to be close to God––to be first in his eyes. How do you expect to rise to Heaven Most High if you question God’s laws?” 

“God does not want us to follow his laws without question. That is why he gave us free will, so that we may follow our own path.” 

Michael gazed into her peculiar yet beautiful eyes, one blue iris and one brown iris. “Perhaps one day I shall come to understand you.” 

“Sooner rather than later––I hope.” She gazed up at him through her long, dark lashes, giggled and grabbed his hand. “Come, let us go to Sonnoris.” Lilith enjoyed the marvels in Floraison all the while imagining the day she would create wonders of her own.
 
 
 

Thank you so much for being our guest this week Vashti. Best wishes for your continued success with this series.
 
 
 
 
 

The pleasure is all mine, Allan. I am grateful to be here. Thank you for helping me spread the word about my new release, The Fall of Lilith.

 

Please visit these sites to discover more about Vashti and her books.







 
 
Photo credits:
Angel - josette.BlogSpot.com
River - Howard Storm planetzion.wordpress
 
 
Thank you dear readers for visiting today. Please leave a comment and make me smile.
 
Watch here for information regarding my newest novel to be released this fall.
 
 

Saturday, 5 August 2017

Two Boys, One Wagon & a Secret - by A. Hudson Part 2.


Thanks for dropping by the Scribbler. I posted Part 1 of this story last week and if you want to check that out, just scroll down to the bottom of this post.
Can you imagine what it would be like if you were ten years old and came across a parked car in the field? Wouldn't you be curious too?


Two Boys, One Wagon & a Secret - Part 2.
(copyright is held by the author)

And then Beans says, “We didn’t do very good in school did we? My folks keep telling me I can do better. I hate studying, I only like arithmetic… and comics.”

The topic of school is a tender one for Chops. The new teacher has an obvious dislike for him. He’s not a fast thinker like Beans; he needs to hear complicated things repeated to understand them and their instructor is short on patience. The rural school is one room, thirty-three kids, eight grades. He claims that he cannot devote personal time to each student and ignores those with learning disabilities. There’s no help at home; the Sangster’s as a whole would get a C-.

“I don’t think my folks care; we’re all kinda dumb. I wish I could like arithmetic, but I love reading. And I really like your comics.”

“You’re not dumb. I’ll help you with the arithmetic.”

The offer is sincere, both bashful before the banter continues.

Another time, Chops says, “You like Mary Jane Baker, don’t you?”

The quiet across the road causes Beans to look back at Chops, who stops walking. His face is so red that you can’t see his freckles. He’s so angry, he’s sputtering,

“D-d-d-don’t say that again. It’s not true.”

Beans starts laughing, realizing from the reaction that it is true and ambles through the ditch singing. “Phil and Mary Jane up in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G...”

“And don’t call me Phil.”

Beans is not listening and scurries up onto the road. Waving to his partner, he yells out, “C’mon, let’s head into Mr. Harnett’s. He’ll be expecting us. If we hurry, we can still do the other way – at least down to the old gravel pit, there’s always some there.”

Chops forgets Mary Jane for now and hurries to catch up as Beans heads into the bachelor’s lane.

“Yeah and there’s always some of those soggy, rubbery things – at least one. Did you ask your dad yet what they are?  Mine told me to forget about it, that I’d know soon enough, whatever that means.”

“No, but I asked my brother. They’re called condoms, but Dave says everybody calls them rubbers.”

Chops catches up to his friend as he ponders the new information, trying to visualise a pair of boots that small. The lane they’re on is dirt and winds through a dense wooded area for a couple hundred feet until it opens onto huge fields on either side. The rich soil is green with new shoots of wheat perfectly aligned; running parallel to the road on one side while in the other field grass grows will, along with purple clover, white daisies, yellow buttercups, legumes and other herbaceous plants that will eventually become fodder. The ground is still damp from yesterday’s rain; the bouquet of worked earth permeates the air, causing the boys to stop more than once to breathe deeply and comment on how good it smells.

 The road eventually splits in two. The lane to the right narrows as it continues for five hundred feet, ending at a neat white farmhouse, two storeys with a verandah in the front and a one-storey kitchen in the back. The yard is thoughtfully groomed, but there are no flowers. Mr. Harnett lives alone. His sister and her husband live down the other road.

A large barn and two smaller out buildings are arranged strategically behind the house. The wooden shingles are weathered as grey as storm clouds; the doors are painted bright red. The property reflects the owner’s pride.  A brand new Chevy Apache sits beside the house, facing them as they approach. The truck’s double headlights seem to stare at them. A tall bushy haired man is polishing the chrome bumper. Without turning around he says, “I was wondering what you two rascals might be up to; you’re usually here before this.”

Wiping his hands on the cotton cloth, he stands to face the boys. Mr. Harnett towers above them and if not for his perpetual smile, he might seem foreboding. Instead, he’s a person happy with his lot. The three chat for a bit, the man teasing the boys and the curious boys asking about the new truck. Mr. Harnett soon sends them off to the front steps where he has placed this week’s empties.

“Goodness, your wagon is full. Think you can fit some more in there?”

Chops is toting the bottles to the cart. Beans waves back saying, “We’ll carry them if we have to. Thanks a lot Mr. Harnett; you’re a swell guy.”

Harnett grins as he watches the lads tuck some of the bottles in upside down between the others. Beans ends up carrying three as they head out the lane. Both boys gaze back at him briefly and he gives them a wave before returning to his polishing. Chops tugs on the wagon as they come up the slight rise that leads to the wooded area. When they are about twenty feet away from the woods, the sun that had been hiding behind a cloud bursts out and glints off something metallic at the edge of the field, causing both boys to look up. They stop where the hay field meets the woods. Tire tracks tell them a vehicle has driven across the culvert and through the uncut grasses. The field extends for a good distance, the land is slightly hilly and except for the antenna, the vehicle is hidden from their view. The ten year olds are filled with curiosity. Chops says, “Those tracks weren’t there when we came in.”

Beans sets the bottles he’s carrying down beside the wagon.

“And we know it isn’t Mr. Harnett.”

“Could be his brother-in-law.”

“Naw, his truck was at the house, I saw it across the way.”

The boys are given to wild imaginations; rumours they hear are given more credibility when something mysterious enters their energetic minds. Chops is the reader, his thinking more creative.

“Suppose it could be whoever stole Jason Lawson’s horse?”

The fact that it would be the unlikeliest of hiding places did nothing to dampen their enthusiasm. Instead, it fuelled on the possibility of intrigue. Beans is the action one.

“We should go see.”

“I don’t know, Beans. What if it is a thief or worse, thieves?”

“C’mon, we’ll just sneak along the woods and see. If it’s strangers, we’ll come back and tell Mr. Harnett. He’d want to know.”

“Okay, but you go ahead and be quiet.”

They pull the wagon closer to the tall spruce that borders the road. The boys enter the woods, keeping the field on their right. Watching where they step so as to be quiet, they approach to the edge of the field. A womanly shriek stops them dead. It sounds like she’s in pain. It startles the two so keenly that Chops almost wets himself. He quickly turns around to head back, but is stopped by a Beans’ hiss. “Wait! It sounds like a woman and she could be hurt.”

“I don’t care. I’m scared. Let’s go.”

“Don’t be a sissy.”

Beans moves forward slowly, Chops reluctantly following. When they hear voices and groaning, they drop to their knees. Crawling toward the sounds, they come to the rim of the field. A white Pontiac is parked at the crux of the right angle of field and woods. The nose of the car faces them, both doors wide open. From below the passenger’s door, tangled in the long grass, are four legs. The two feet pointing up have coloured nails and something pink and lacy hangs from one ankle. The feet pointing down are shod with black shiny shoes, dress pants scrunched about the ankles, toes digging in the dirt. The car rocks with the same rhythm as the thrusting of the heels. The boys don’t understand what is happening. They are shocked at what they see yet mesmerized by the moaning.

A piercing yell almost causes Beans and Chops hearts to stop, scaring them so intensely. They hold their breath. They want to hug the earth but are frozen by what they see. The car is heaving back and forth more rapidly. A man’s head appears in the windshield, bent unbelievingly back, his eyes tightly shut, lips stretched into a grimace, spittle flying from his mouth as he exclaims, “Yes baby, yes baby, yes baby…”

Suddenly everything stops, the head disappears, the feet stop moving, the car settles down. They boys stare at each other in total disbelief.  The two innocents have yet to experience an orgasm and for the life of them cannot fathom what they have just seen. There is mumbling coming from the car, nothing they can discern.  Chops stares at Beans now, wondering what they should do.  A womanly voice urges softly but commandingly, “Okay, get off me now.”

The lads are stunned when they see the man stand up before bending down to retrieve his trousers. It’s Horatio Glendenning, their schoolteacher. A young lady sits up in the car, tugging at the pink fabric around her ankle, placing the other foot gently through. Standing behind the man, the woman wiggles the tight panties into place. When she moves aside to straighten her dress, her face is in full view.  It isn’t Mrs. Glendenning. They don’t know who it is. Chops is started by a soft blow to his shoulder. Beans begins to creep away. “Let’s get the dickens outta here.”

They are almost running when they get to the wagon. Beans tosses the three empties he’d been carrying into the ditch. “We’ll get those next week.”

Standing behind the wagon, he gestures for Chops to start pulling while he pushes. The boys are soon scooting down the wooded lane. Veering to the left the two head directly home, ignoring whatever empties might be had along the way. There are too many questions. Their innocent minds can’t understand why the woman had her underwear off, why the car was shaking, or why the man was repeating himself. They figure that their teacher was punishing the woman for something.

The conversation drifts when they turn into Beans driveway and head for the garage. Unloading the wagon in silence, each boy is preoccupied with his own thoughts. Looking to Beans for the answers, Chops asks, “What are we going to do?”

“Nothing right now. I’m going to talk to my brother Dave about this.”

Even though he was only fifteen, Dave, like his brother and father, is big for his age. He made it a point to “run into” Mr. Glendenning at the Farmer’s Market one Saturday morning in July. And when the boys started back to school in the fall, they never failed an exam. Chops is the first one in his family to get an A.





Thanks for visiting the Scribbler. Hope you enjoyed meeting "Beans & Chops".


Please watch for details of my newest novel coming soon.


Saturday, 29 July 2017

Two Boys, One Wagon & A Secret. A Short Story by Allan Hudson. Part 1

I had a terrific time writing this short story. I love the antics that two ten year old boys can get up to. Originally published in the limited edition of SHORTS Vol. 3, I am posting it today in two parts.

Watch for Part 2 next week to find what the boys discover - what is the secret all about?




I am considering a novella of these two characters or a series of short stories and I would appreciate your comments as to what kind of trouble these young lads might get into in the future. (Please leave your comments below)



Two Boys, One Wagon & a Secret.
(Copyright is held by the author)



Beans and Chops are both ten years old. Beans, aka John Pascal Williams Jr, looks like a teenager, big for his age, hair and eyes both dark. Everybody calls him Beans because when he was seven he came home for lunch every day one week always asking his mother if they could have beans. Someone had told him that beans would give him gas.  His father always complained that gas was so expensive; if he could make some gas for his father then his dad would be happy. He had no idea how he’d get the gas in his dad’s car but John Jr. loved nothing more than making his father happy.

His mother figured the boy loved beans, so she fed him beans once a day for a whole week. He was producing gas all right, gas that escaped during class, announcing its freedom in a noisy and putrid fashion. At suppertime the day it happened, he told his family about the awful time he had. His mother explained why it happened and suggested he shouldn’t eat so many. His older brother Dave, upon hearing the story of the beans, laughed so hard he fell from his chair. From that day on John Jr. was called Beans.

Chops, named Caudwell Horatio Orville Phileas Sangster, is small for his age, making him look more like an eight year old. A cap of reddish curly locks tops his head and freckled cheeks decorated his cherub face. His parents call him Phil. When he started school, the older kids would tell him to “Phil it up” or ask “Are you full, Phil?” or say something that made fun of his name. The teased him so often that after school he would hide in his room and cry big tearful sobs. The torment lasted until summer break. During the holidays, when he was idle, he would print his entire full name on blank paper trying to decide which one he would use when he returned to school in the fall. When he couldn’t decide he printed out the first letter from each name, forming the word CHOPS. He liked how it sounded, so after that he would only answer to Chops. The most peculiar aspect of the new name was that no one made fun of it, not even the older kids.

The boys are neighbours. They’ve played together since they were babies. Their homes are separated by a quarter mile stretch of cultivated field that changes its skin with the seasons, brown and ruddy in the spring, lush and verdant in the summer, beige and prickly whiskered in autumn, white and pale in the winter. The two properties are joined by an umbilical cord of soft earth beaten smooth and permanent by the passing of their growing feet. The passage seems almost sacred – old Mr. Crackett would lift his plough or turn the seeder instead of disturbing the boy’s polished route. Their sneakers leave impressions on the soil: sharp with solid lines when new, unwrinkled and flat as the treads and the summer wore away. This spring there had been a change to the patterns. The imprint of narrow rubber wheels framed the rural hieroglyphs. Beans has a new wagon.

Chops is in awe of the cart with its black hard rubber tires mounted on shiny red rims, sleek polished wood the color of a summer tan made up the bed and side boards. The two boys always clean it on Sunday afternoon before they set out on their weekly bottle hunt. Right after church the boys change into old dungarees and matching white T’s. They have identical black and white sneakers. They are polishing the frame with an old chamois that Bean’s dad had given them when Chops says, “Can I pull the wagon today, Beans?”

Beans looks over at his friend and saw the sheepish look on his face – he asks the same question every Sunday. Shaking his head yes, Beans says, “You like this wagon, don’t ya?”

Pure pleasure is evident in Chops’ happy grin.

“Oh yeah, I love this wagon; it’s so nifty.”

They line the base of the carrier with pages from a newspaper so that any drips from not quite empty bottles would not stain the polished wood. Chops fans out the pages, being fussier even though it isn’t his. His childish heart knows he will never have one of his own. There are too many siblings, too little money. He always reminds himself that he’s never hungry, his clothes are always clean and his parents never yell at him. He usually got a new toy on his birthday and Christmas, but never anything as grand as a wagon. So he tows his best friend’s wheeled wonder as often as he can.

Beans on the other hand has only one brother and two parents who work. There isn’t a river of money at his home, but no drought either. The wagon hadn’t been a gift. It was a business proposition with his parents. He’d wanted one since he’d seen it at Cottrell’s Hardware.

Before the wagon, he and Beans had made their weekly hunt with burlap bags that grew heavier with each reward they found. The first time, they had collected their bounty as they walked away from home; the trek back with half-full bags slung over their stiffening shoulders convinced them there had to be a better way. The next week, they walked the usual two miles and hunted for empties on the return. But with a wagon, Beans decided, they could go even farther.

He made a deal with his parents. They would buy the wagon and he would pay them back from the earnings he made each week. It was 1959. A stamp was four cents, a gallon of milk cost a dollar, and the wagon sold for $19.95. He received a penny for each empty. Drinking and driving was thought to be great fun back then, so the country roads were usually littered with empty beer bottles after a raunchy country Saturday night with miscreants tossing evidence of their enjoyment from moving vehicles. Oddly enough, very few bottles broke. On a good Sunday, the boys would split fifty to sixty cents. Combined with his weekly allowance of half a dollar, Beans proclaimed quite proudly to his mother and father that he could repay them a dollar and twenty cents each month. He vowed that he would pay for the wagon in one year. His parents were so impressed with his determination that they agreed to buy it, with the understanding that he had to pay back only half and the wagon would be his.

 

Today is Sunday, June 21.  At one in the afternoon, the sky is dotted with puffs of clouds far apart, giving the hot sun ample time to bake the boys a wee bit browner. They’ve been walking for an hour, dawdling as boys will as they come to the last hill on their route. It’s not very long but oddly steep. The old country road had been tarred and sealed with stone only last year ; the shoulders are raw earth about three feet wide. Grass grows in patches with a few dandelions for color; small potholes and tiny rocks from the roadwork make the wagon hard to pull. When there are no cars coming, they hike on the pavement. The boys would normally not come this far, but at the top of the rise is the Mitchells’ mailbox. Experience has taught them they can usually count on a half dozen or more bottles in the shallow ditch behind it. Everybody who drinks in a car tries to hit it with an empty as they drive past. Some do and the mailbox is battered, dented, and sits on the post lopsided. The flag stopped working long ago. Beans says the old man likes the attention.

“He told my Dad that Hugh Smith has hit it eight times, keeps promising him a new one. Mr. Mitchell told Huey not to bother, no sense ruining another one.”

Chops nods his head and chuckles. “Makes sense.”

It sounds silly to them; they laugh at most things.

There had been a square dance at Robertson’s Dance Hall the night before so the pickings are heavy this afternoon. There are ten bottles: two Pepsi and a Coke, five Moosehead and two Schooner. Chops walks the edge of the woods twenty feet back from the road, where some of the bottles have flown.


 

“There’s no broken glass so nobody hit the mailbox last night.”

Beans is organizing the empties to the rear of the wagon, his bangs hanging down over his forehead.

“Huey went out West, that’s why. There’s nothing else, let’s go.”

Both boys tightly grip the loaded wagon that wants to roll away by itself. Starting out on their way back, they hang on to the handle together to slow the cart, letting it roll backwards down the hill. Their boy chatter carries them home as they separate to walk each side of the road. Feathered creatures call to each other, birdsong of mating and warnings accompany them. The one not pulling the wagon is mostly in the ditch and a little further ahead, usually Beans. Each cries out “Another penny” when they find an abandoned bottle. Talking loudly to each other from across the road, the conversation is a continuous stream.

And then Beans says, “We didn’t do very good in school did we? My folks keep telling me I can do better. I hate studying, I only like arithmetic… and comics.”
 
 
 




Thank you for visiting the Scribbler. I would appreciate your comments as to what kind of trouble these young lads might get into in the future.


Saturday, 22 July 2017

4Q Interview with Artist Melanie Belliveau.


The Scribbler is excited to have Melanie as our special guest this week. She is a very talented artist that resides in Cocagne, New Brunswick where she maintains a studio, operating under the business name of Melbelivo Art. She has agreed to answer several questions for us. 
 
 
 
 
(Photos of Melanie are by Janik Robichaud Photography. Copyright of drawings is held by Melbelivo Art and used with permission)
 
 
 
 
 
 

4Q: Your artwork is stunning and so real. When did you take an interest in drawing?

MB: Thanks so much Allan! I took an interest in drawing as early as I could hold a pencil! I was always fascinated with Walt Disney’s works, not only for the magic of them and how they made me feel, but also for the technique of his artwork… I would draw cartoons inspired by him all the time. At one point I even dreamed of working for Walt Disney Studios. Eventually my drawing would get me in trouble at school because I was always doodling on my schoolwork! Haha

Many doodles and cartoons later, I realized in high school that my passion lied in realism drawing. I created many realism drawings until I was about 19 years old… I then opted for the safe route and pursued a career in marketing and sales. I always wondered what would have happened if I had decided to pursue art… so I started drawing again last year.



4Q: Tell us about Melbelivo Art, your studio, your work habits and what inspires you.

MB: Well last Fall after a 14-year hiatus, I decided to dust off my old art supplies and draw. I instantly fell in love with drawing all over again and I haven’t stopped since! The last 8 months have been amazing. The amount of support I have received from my hometown, my family and friends has been overwhelming and I couldn’t be more grateful.  

I made myself an art studio so I could have a functional creative space. (Also I had sort of taken over the kitchen table ha-ha) I love drawing at night when the rest of the world is asleep, there’s a peaceful feeling and I find it easier to draw. I spend a lot of time on marketing and networking during the day.

I consider myself to be a huge music nerd, so I love drawing music legends that have inspired me through the years. I also love drawing faces, so I often pick celebrities or famous actors, etc. to draw because I love challenging myself with accuracy. I aim for hyper-realism, so the more realistic I can make them, the better.

 

4Q: Please share a childhood anecdote or memory.

MB: I am told my first drawing ever was on my father’s expensive sound system with a banana when I was still in diapers (oops)

 

4Q: What does the future hold for Melanie Belliveau, the artist?

MB: Everything is still fairly new, but I am looking at starting commissioned work soon. I would love to take on custom projects as I have received many requests and am starting to feel more comfortable with my workflow after a 14-year break. I will announce on my social media when I decide to open my books. In the meantime, I am selling limited edition prints of my current works which can be found on my Facebook page, Melbelivo Art. I will also have a booth at this year’s Hub City Tattoo Expo to showcase my art.


 


 

You can discover more about Melanie and her work by going here.



 


Thank you Melanie for being our guest this week and sharing your delightful sketches. Wishing you continued success with your art.

 

Thanks for having me Allan!
 
 
Thank you to you the faithful visitor and reader. Make me smile and leave a comment below.