Page 66 of With a Little Luck

My mind floods with visions of artistic acclaim. Next, my work will be selected for the magazine’s cover. Then other magazines will come calling—Nerd TodayandDragon Scriptand then, I don’t know, like, theNew Yorkeror something. People will commission stuff. Hollywood will want me illustrating movie posters, and publishers will put my comics into print, and my original pieces will sell out every time they’re displayed in Artist Alley at Comic-Con.

This is an opportunity. I have to seize it, right?

Nerves humming, I grab my backpack and sit down at the table, pulling out my sketchbook. I flip back through the most recent comic sketches—just a few goofy pages about Araceli the Magnificent coaxing a ragtag group of treasure hunters to go on a quest to save her wizard, and the first phase of their adventure.

I can’t share these with anyone. They’re too cheesy, and packed full of inside jokes that no one but my friends would appreciate. Now that I know theDungeonwants to see more of my work, I feel like I’ve been wasting my time on this comic. I should have been pushing myself to create something more original. I need to focus on getting published and building a respectable portfolio, now that I have my foot in the door.

And yeah—I know what you’re thinking. I’m clearly just using this as172a distraction to take my thoughts off of the painful end to tonight’s date with Maya.

But why do you say that like it’s a bad thing?

The fact is, I haven’t been drawing much lately, ever since my drawing was first accepted. I guess I’ve been plagued with … something. Artist’s block? The overriding terror that they picked my art by mistake and any day now I’ll get the apology email, along with a kindly worded postscript urging me to look into other hobbies?

I page through my older drawings. Warlocks. Druids. Trolls. Treasure chests and sword fights, and everything is boring, boring, boring.

What did Ralph Tigmont see in the piece I submitted? What did he like about it? He mentioned my unique style and perspective, but as far as I can tell, nothing I’ve done is unique at all. It’s all been done a thousand times. The drawings aren’tbad, per se. I mean, I still struggle with arm length sometimes, and the way this rogue elf is gripping his daggers is all wrong, and what was I thinking, putting this fighter in such stereotypical battle armor? It’s like I haven’t had a single original thought in my entire life.

Shaking my head, I dig out a pencil.

Okay. No big deal. I’ll just draw something new. I’m motivated now. I know what they’re looking for.

Just kidding.

I have no idea what they’re looking for.

But if I did it once, maybe I can do it again.

I start to sketch.

After a few minutes, the lines coalesce into a warrior wearing a flowing cape, surrounded by a pile of skulls.

Ugh. Predictable.

I turn the page. Start again.

A girl. A fighter. With a sword and armor that is … curiously skimpy?

Objectification and impracticality, all in one go.Sooriginal. I’m a freaking pioneer of the cultural arts.

A new page.173

I draw a dragon perched at the top of crumbling castle ruins, and it’s garbage. Absolute garbage.

I don’t have a unique perspective. There’s nothing unique about me at all.

And that’s when it hits me.

I am an impostor. This is what creators mean when they talk about impostor syndrome, except it isn’t just a syndrome—it’s real. That piece I submitted before was a fluke. A once-in-a-lifetime miracle. A one-hit wonder. The only good thing I will ever produce, and it’s over. I won’t even cash the check they’re sending. I’ll just frame it, so that fifty years from now I can look at that check on my wall and reminisce about that one time I had a drawing published in my favorite magazine. That one time I made something worthwhile. The one time I didn’t completely suck.

No—that’s not even true. I had the dice then. That’s how my drawing got chosen. It wasn’t me. It wasn’t the art. It was thedice.

Which means it wasn’t really earned at all.

The kitchen light flickers on. I start and look up to see, not one of my sisters, butAri.

She’s standing in the doorway wearing a black tank top and flannel pajama pants that are covered in small pink hearts.

“Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you,” she says, seeing my expression. “I was just getting a glass of water.” She cocks her head at me, taking in my notebook. “Did I interrupt a stroke of midnight inspiration?”

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