I've been on the hunt for napkins.

I switched from paper towels to cloth a while back, but the ones we’re using are very spring floral. Fuchsia, baby blue, grass green. That's not going to cut it for the cozy vibe I’m cultivating this winter. I need understated—pumpkin, rust, yellow ochre. I need this:

Fall colors at the part down the street.

I started my search at HomeSense. That's where I found the floral ones, plus a white linen set I'll probably never be brave enough to use. Didn’t find anything. So I switched my search online. I had my heart set on these gingham European linen napkins. But oof, sixteen pounds each. That's more than I want to spend on something duty-bound to get stained on the first use.

Fancy European flax napkins

I found some half-decent substitutes, but didn’t trust the quality. Everything online was either too bright, printed rather than woven, or polyester. No synthetic fibers for me. If I can't find linen, I at least want cotton. They may take more care, but I didn’t switch away from paper towels only to add microplastics to the mix.

I finally found something that looked moderately close to the European linen at Kohl's, so I drove to Towson to check them out. Didn't love them. Cotton-poly blend. But I'd already driven there, so I stopped by HomeGoods. Nothing there either—just Christmas stuff and a William Morris print that's ubiquitous now.

But then my eye caught on something. A 100% cotton napkin. Natural ecru with a pumpkin-rust pattern woven in at the edges. Not gingham, but definitely the vibe. I looked around for the rest. Nothing. Then I looked down at that bottom shelf where everything lands. I got on my knees—yep, I was that woman—and peered under. Found another one. Further down, one more. Then I started digging behind stuff on other shelves. All in all, I found eleven.

I figured there had to be at least one more since napkins often come in packs of twelve. But I didn't want to start taking things off the shelf. I’m not that woman.

I took my eleven loose napkins to the checkout, hoping they'd sell them to me. While in line, I looked them up—found a set on eBay. They come in packs of eight. That means there are at least five more in the store somewhere. I'd love to have them, but I have a dog to get home to.

At the checkout, the cashier called someone from that department. He asked where the tag was. I said there wasn't one. He went to find it. I could've saved him the trip. Eventually he came back and told the cashier to make up a price ‘cause they didn’t have any more. Could've told him that, too.

Eventually, I left with my prize. Washed the napkins, folded them, put the old ones in the drawer under the china cabinet and set the new ones in the wooden box on the table.

The napkins I fought for

We christened them the next day when we had friends over. Paul made pulled pork. I tried hard not to dirty mine, but of course I couldn't tell anyone else not to. At the end of the night I collected them—grease stains on every single one. I crossed my fingers, sprayed them with natural laundry detergent, added oxygen booster, and washed them in the sink before hanging them over the shower rod to dry. The next day they were good as new.

They're not European linen, but I'm happy with them. And honestly, I feel like I earned them.

Not sure what I’ll do if I have more than eleven people over this winter. Maybe bust out the white linen.

I woke up at 3am thinking about royalties.

Royalties and advances and advances on royalties. They're one of those mysterious illustrator things, though I first encountered them back in my band days. You could sign up with a publishing company and somehow you'd get money a few times a year if a song got played on a college radio station.

Free money. With a side of ego-boost. Who doesn’t want that? Me apparently, because I never signed up. I could’ve done something with that $1.31. Le sigh.

For illustrators, royalties come from sales—greeting cards, fabric, books. Do enough things that sell well and you can build long-term income. But most things don't earn out. Getting a good advance is always better. With royalties, you're paid precisely based on how well the item sold. Advances are about hope and good faith—how well the distributor hopes it will sell. You and the publisher both take risks: you accept royalties in lieu of more money upfront, the publisher offers an advance on something that doesn't exist yet. As long as you complete the project, you don’t have to pay it back. So if it doesn't sell well, that’s still real money in your pocket. So get the best advance you can. If royalties come, that's icing on the cake.

My cake recently got a few more frosting flowers. After five years, Claude earned out. I thought it might—it's in its 5th or 6th printing now and has a board book edition—so I was feeling confident.

A few weeks ago Julia, the accountant at my old agency, emailed with the good news and sent my royalty statement. That's what woke me up at 3am: the idea that I could show you how to read the damn thing, for when you get one of your own.

I'm not sure it's kosher to share my actual statement. I think we should all talk about money more, but this isn't just my money—it's the publisher's too, and my agent's. So instead, here's a fictional one.

This is Mirabel's statement. She's a squirrel (not that it matters). She wrote and illustrated a book called Acorns & Elegance: A Guide to Seasonal Entertaining. Tiny Tail Press paid her an advance of 1000 leaves. The book was a hit—fourteen moons on the New Oak Times Bestseller list—and she just earned out.

The first page shows the reporting period and how often statements come. This period, Mirabel earned 22.2 leaves.

Here's where it breaks down by sale type. Mirabel gets 6% of hardcover books over 1000 units sold. She got 5% for books 1-1000, but that’s not listed here—a small bump in royalties is a fairly common bonus when a book sells well. She also gets 4% for paperbacks.

Each type is split between regular and discount sales. Different formats and retailers can have different rates. The list price for Acorns & Elegance is 10 leaves, so when a book sells at full price, Mirabel gets around half a leaf per book. For heavily discounted sales (which are common with wholesale pricing), she still gets 4-6%, but of net instead of the list price. Net can be, uh—squirrelly—so be sure to ask how the publisher or manufacturer calculates it before signing anything.

The summary shows what she earned this period, minus money the publisher is holding to cover books that might be returned, plus any money they released from last period’s reserves, and minus what remains on her advance. In other words, the publisher keeps some funds to protect against potential returns while returning any money they no longer need to hold.

If Mirabel still had a lot of her advance remaining, you’d see that under Advances and Expenses. But all that remains is 4.7 leaves. Since that’s less than what she earned this period, she’s finally earning out. Tiny Tail Press will pay her the balance of 22.2 leaves. Maybe that’s 22 big leaves and one really small one. I don’t know rodent economics.

Finally, we see how many total units Mirabel has sold. Not bad! Hopefully it will stay in print for many years to come!

Once you earn out, every statement after that is just money coming in. More icing on your cake, or in Mirabel's case, more maple on her pecans.

Mirabel's hard at work on her follow up, Chestnuts & Charm: A Guide to Gracious Living. Preorder at Tiny Tail Press.

I've been harvesting cherry tomatoes all week. I grow some on my deck—bright orange. I swear they smell like citrus when I pick them. Grapefruit, maybe. And there's a patch of red cherries near the old mansion in my neighborhood where I sometimes walk with Frisket. My neighbor calls wild tomatoes volunteers. I appreciate their effort.

Monday I cooked them with Italian sausage, broccolini and a bit of butter. Is there anything better than tomato infused oil? Tuesday we had leftovers. By Thursday we were running low, so I foraged more.

Saturday night we went to DC to see our friends in Black Eyes play at the Black Cat. On the way, I drove, so I got to pick the music. The Psychedelic Furs—a band I loved since childhood. I told Paul about one of the most cringe things I've done, which involved holding a boy's hand and listening quietly through an entire song. Paul said, "I think you have to be cringe to be an artist."

I asked him what he meant and he elaborated. "You don't get cringe without taking risks. It's not cool to feel things deeply. And why even bother making art if you don't care about anything?"

Arriving in DC, we saw soldiers walking around. National Guard, brought in by Trump. I've been to Guatemala, where police wear camo and carry assault rifles. It was unsettling there. It's unsettling here. But I saw more people wearing FREE DC shirts than soldiers, which was comforting.

Black Eyes are fun. I missed their heyday—they'd broken up just before I met them all, and now, twenty years later, they're touring again. Young girls in pigtails and X’d up hands moshing at the front of the stage. That used to be me.

During the set I reached into my coat pocket and felt something unexpected. Soft and smooth, like a superball. I pulled it out—a cherry tomato, probably in there for a month. Totally fine somehow.

This is me, at a dance-punk show, with a foraged cherry tomato in my pocket.

When I got home I put it with its brothers.

Sunday night we saw more old friends. Pissed Jeans at the Ottobar here in Baltimore. Heavy punk. Raw and yet flawless. Feels like you're watching the Stooges. The drummer is one of my oldest friends. Sometimes you're states apart, but when you see each other again, you know you're family.”

I stayed to watch the headliner, High Vis. Hard core/punk with a very British flavor. The singer performed like Shaun Ryder. When they warmed up with a Stone Roses riff, I knew I was in good hands.

At one point during the show, I put my hand in my pocket and felt something nestled in a fingerless glove.

Another tomato.

So I guess that's my thing now.

Saturday started with pastries at Motzi. I got an heirloom tomato and pesto danish. Can tomato season please last forever? Paul got pain au chocolat. We'd gone for their new softserve (melon and creamy basil swirl) but it wasn't ready yet. We'll have to go back.

Then we grabbed Frisket and headed to the Remington Shop Small Crawl. Hotdogs at Glizzy's first, then into Greedy Reads to browse, then a cocktail at Pink Flamingo. Rum and apple cider with a dash of this and that. Perfect for early afternoon when it's still a little cool out.

After that we drove over to Bolton Hill for the Festival on the Hill. What a pretty neighborhood! Old row homes, tree-lined streets, architectural details I want to explore more. We got oysters at a stand, then I found my friend Jen's booth (Yummy & Company) where she was selling pottery.

Her pieces are beautiful—delicate jewelry, mostly. Small sculptural forms that sit in your palm. I didn't get photos of her work, which I'm kicking myself about now, but there will certainly be other opportunities. I'll just have to share a blue and white snake I have of hers. It looks like Delft, which is totally my jam.

It's so nice to see a friend's work displayed like that, price tags and all. It makes you see it differently. More seriously, maybe. And perhaps you can take your own work more seriously, too.

A few stands down we saw my friend and neighbor, Alison of White Hill Pottery. She makes really cozy ceramic dishes—the kind that makes you want to take all the doors off your cabinets so you can display them. Big fan. I didn't take photos there either, but here's the charming little stand she has on our street.

I've been painting pottery myself this week. Nothing as refined as what they're making—they've been at this for years—but I'm learning. Friday afternoon at the Potters Guild, then again on Sunday. It's a different kind of making than drawing on paper and screens. More deliberate. More patient. You paint it, it gets fired, and only then do you see if the three layers of white you applied successfully covered the smudge of blue you couldn't wash out.

I've been so busy writing for the community site this week that I haven't drawn much. The pottery was freeing—just getting to make something without anyone to answer to except myself.

We came home and our friends Van and Alex came over. We grilled more hotdogs (hotdog day, apparently—no complaints), had eggplant and potato salad, then Taharka ice cream, which is seriously the best. Then we played Isle of Cats, a board game I'd never played before. I won despite having no idea what I was doing and playing what I can only describe as a very lazy game.

Sometimes that's how it goes. You see your friends selling work they've refined over years, you work on your own pieces between other projects, and then you win a game you weren't even trying at. There's probably a metaphor in there about creative practice, but I'm too full of ice cream to figure it out.

I've been wanting to blog for months but it felt like such a production. Then someone said: don't create, just document. So here's a week.

Monday

It’s Monday morning and I'm plugging graphics into the community site I’ve been working on. They look... fine? I drew them last week and was pleased then, but now I'm not sure. Website design is fully in my comfort zone. I did it for ages. But I realized I’ve always worked with someone else’s text. Drawing images before I actually know what I’m saying is maybe putting the cart before the horse. I'm trying not to spiral into perfectionism about it. It's fine. Probably fine.

The weather was lovely, so Paul grilled for dinner. Impossible burgers and fresh corn and eggplant from the CSA. I used to hate eggplant. Now I love it. I don’t think it’s a texture thing, because I still don’t like it when it’s not fully cooked through. It needs to be soft, to almost disappear in your mouth. Paul is happy because he loves cooking with it. He has so many tasty recipes for it. Have my tastes changed so much? Makes me wonder what else I might learn to love. Olives, maybe? Blue cheese?

Tuesday

On Tuesday I made esquites with the leftover corn. We somehow ended up with three unopened bags of tortilla chips after the block party last weekend, so corn salad seemed like the obvious solution. Mayonnaise, lime juice, garlic, chile pepper, cotija cheese. So yummy with the charred sweetness and crunch of fresh corn!

After lunch I did puzzle edits. The job was done months ago—finished, paid, put away—but then the client wanted changes after seeing proofs. Not small ones. There’s always a level of guesswork in estimations, but I sent them a rate that felt fair—a balance between a good rate if it went quickly and a reasonable rate if it dragged.

It's dragging.

I've been timing myself and I’ve already sailed past the "good money" mark, and now dipping below "reasonable." But I like this client. They’re good people, and I want them to feel good about the work they’re getting, so I keep noodling around, even adding a few details they didn't ask for but will probably appreciate.

Wednesday

Wednesday morning, back to the community site. Writing the landing page, trying to explain what I'm creating. It took forever to find the right words. I hope people get it. Thinking about making new illustrations after all.

Lunch was the leftover esquites with a fried egg, fresh avocado, and tomatoes from the garden. More tortilla chips, obviously. We're going to be eating chips until 2025 at this rate.

Still working on the puzzle in the afternoon. Still over my estimate. Still adding little touches because they feel right.

Thursday

It rained all day Thursday.

I did laundry in the morning and then finally sat down to work on blogging. I've been wanting to do this for ages but haven't prioritized it. Or—I'm trying to reframe this—I haven't practiced prioritizing it. Time is finite. If I want to do something, I have to take time from something else. Which means deciding it's worth it.

So I guess I'm practicing deciding it's worth it.

In the evening I sketched new thumbnails for the community landing page. The old ones didn’t have enough visual storytelling. And it needs visual storytelling—it's a site for illustrators, after all.

I think this would be much easier if I wasn’t an illustrator. Then I could use stock photography and call it a day. But I don't want stock anything, so I need to make something custom. Simple. Meaningful. Which is literally my job, so I should probably trust myself to do it okay.

Trying not to overthink.

Friday

Friday was delightfully sunny. I took Frisket to the park to play fetch.

Then she got to see her good friend Chowder (a dog), and her good friend Ray (a human). Ray always has treats at the ready. Pretty sure Frisket thinks he buys them just for her. They're besties like that.

I cleaned the studio for fifteen minutes. Trying to make it a daily thing. Even five minutes makes a difference.

Then I drew. I selected a couple thumbnails from yesterday and got to work on final images. Naturally I didn't like where it was going for the first hour. Just had to keep pecking at it until it got better. Oh the ugly phase. It’s a part of every piece, and yet I still have to remind myself that I just have to keep going and I’ll make it through to the other side.

I made it through.

Weekend

We booked hotels for South America on Saturday. Paul has a conference in Buenos Aires, but we're starting in Montevideo and taking a ferry across. Can’t wait!

In the evening I went to the wedding of an old classmate from the Potters Guild. It was in a beautiful old church that had been converted to a community space. It was a great time. Good food, delicious cocktails, lots of dancing. Were there pottery moves on the dance floor? Possibly.

After the ceremony, I got a text from my stepmom saying my dad was going to the hospital. He’s recovering from severe acute pancreatitis and complications relating to it, so he’s been in and out of the hospital for months. He’s okay. But it’s stressful, and I was happy to be surrounded by friends and an atmosphere of celebration. There are worse things than dancing away your anxiety to Gaga and ABBA.

Sunday was a cookout at Paul's parents' house. His dad's theory: if you're lighting the grill, might as well cook everything. So. Much. Sausage. And more corn. And more eggplant. And zero complaints.