I’m not sure when, or how, or even why – but a little while ago my body just stopped making art.

I stopped painting, writing and blogging; meanwhile I continued to think about painting, writing and blogging. I just couldn’t make anything happen.

I couldn’t start anything. I couldn’t finish anything I’d started. I started to feel guilty about all the not starting and not finishing, which led to more not starting and not finishing.
I just didn’t have it in me.
Or rather, I had art in me that didn’t want to be made yet.
After a long while of guilty feelings and worrying about letting clients down I decided maybe I just needed to give myself a break. For once.
So I didn’t worry about turning the lights on in the studio every day hoping I’d find myself at my desk later on. I let my filing go un-filed. I let my cat sleep on the scanner undisturbed. I stopped listening to music.
And then, as suddenly as it had gone away, the art came back. I’m glad it did.

Rachael Rossman



Rachael Rossman



Rachael Rossman



Rachael Rossman


That One Time I Met Neil Gaiman

It was June 29, in the sweltering Portland heat…wait, that can’t be right.

But it was. It was like 90 degrees  the day I met Neil Gaiman. There were 900 people packed into the Crystal Ballroom, a beautiful, non-air conditioned venue downtown.

By virtue of our early arrival, my friend and I were seated in the second row. Not all authors have an opening act, but Jason Webley opened with his hat-wearing-accordion-playing awesomeness. Neil did a reading (Chapter 3) from The Ocean at the End of the Lane, which I had purposely not read yet so I could read the signed copy.

After the reading, my friend and I debated about sticking around in the sweltering heat to get our books signed. The 900 bodies in the Ballroom, combined with the unexpected sunlight, were cooking up a decidedly sweaty funk.

Naturally, I complained to Twitter.

 And from backstage came this reply:

So, of course I did.

And also, because the friend I was with happened to be pregnant, we were whisked to the front of the line.

So, after painting he and his wife with skull faces; and both of his dogs, with regular faces; I finally met Neil Gaiman in real life.


The end.

Rachael Rossman