Whenever I draw I compare it to other artists (particularly comic artists,) and although I'll spot mistakes in their stuff - overlapping lines or slightly dodgy anatomy on characters, I make excuses for them, ('They've made it! They can make whatever mistakes they like!) whilst simultaneously lambasting my own efforts.
I'm also very impatient. I rarely plan any creative works in advance, just do whatever comes into my head. I almost never used to do preparatory sketches, although they have crept in over the years it's still usually a conscious effort. The impatience also means I generally only do one pass and make minor edits as I go rather than start over and do complete revisions.
So in the end I'm being stricter, but more relaxed. Stricter in the sense that if something isn't working out, re-do it, but more relaxed in terms of doing stuff for fun, not to create a masterpiece or something that would get me a job doing it.
Anyway this is what I'm currently working on:
If you want more info & sketches, click on the spoiler. Warning, it's a bit lengthy, but there are a few more pics.
And also I wrote a poem about a showdown, called The Duel. Pinklet liked it, so I thought I'd put it up:
The Duel
Two met under a noon day sun,
A grudge to bear and loaded gun.
One man sure to youth was tethered,
The other older and rather weathered.
The high street trembled their approach,
For one would die without reproach.
The argument had been a slight,
And now the men must prove their might.
Boots in the dust and dirt-caked nails,
Neither dare think, what if he fails?
So fingers creak at silver's hilt,
Brought together by honor's guilt.
Reflected light from high-up sun,
Traced the barrels of their guns.
The older man was bristled, thick,
But no one knew what made him tick.
With surly air and frowning face,
His anger had befouled this place.
For since the time his wife had died,
He'd given up and had not tried,
To be a good man anymore,
He'd lost what he'd been trying for.
The younger man, a farmer's son,
Had never even held a gun,
Before today, he'd tended herds,
And wasn't very good with words.
Until last night, when his first liquor,
Made his brain slow but his mouth quicker,
He'd called the older man a fool,
And been called out to partake a duel.
The bar was silenced, piano stopped,
And every man's jaw had dropped.
No one in there could believe,
The young man was beyond reprieve.
He'd have to fight the man he faced,
To atone for his disgrace.
The younger man slept not a wink,
He tossed and turned, could only think,
Of what he would say to his God,
Once his carcass hit the sod.
And hammering kept him awake,
The undertaker had boxes to make.
Pine coffins, two, he had made double,
In anticipation of the trouble.
Morning broke with little hope,
The young man's family could not cope,
And so a last ditch plan was hatched,
The Sheriff in all haste dispatched,
Up to the older man's small place,
In order to plead the young man's case.
The plea fell onto deafened ears,
No respite, despite young years,
He'd see the younger man at noon,
And bring him to untimely doom.
And so the time to settle score,
The older man, he whispered: "Draw."
Two hands reach down and fingers grip,
And hope to God they did not slip.
A flash! A crack! And through the space,
Two solid lumps of lead did trace,
Their deadly arc through the air,
To find it's mark and bring despair.
Two shots ring out across the sky,
Two men were stood, one falls to die.
Coughing blood with grimaced face,
He took his last look at the place.
Vultures circled overhead,
To let him know that he was dead.
Not too sad to leave was he,
He'd seen some things no man should see.
One last thing he had to say,
Before he saw his last that day.
With finger pointed as his gun had,
He spoke advice unto the lad.
"Remember this, unfair but true,"
He croaked his last,
"And someday, you!"
doodling for doodling's sake is always annoying as hell for me, but then again, I can't draw for shit...