#fun art process explanation here i drew this in my sketchbook and then just took a picture of it and threw that in csp and added values...

[roitaminnah]

in my fanfiction era and by that I mean mostly reading I've read at least 70% of all 200 buttsoup fics on ao3.. but 2day we are drawing scenes from fanfiction because this ppkm first kiss scene from the fic 'Maybe I'm Not All You Thought' has had an iron grip on me for the past 5 days

[justanotherdeadgirlwalking]

That is Just the Saddest F**king Thing I Have Ever Heard.

TW obviously DEH is about a kid’s suicide, so it has those themes

other parts :)

Part Five. 

Art doesn’t just happen. It’s a process. You need a muse, an inspiration, something that lights a spark in your brain. Inspiration is everywhere. I’m surrounded constantly by beautiful bodies, beautiful faces. Sometimes you walk down the street and see how perfectly someone’s shoulders meet their slender neck, and the image burns into your mind. You want to see it in front of you again, but you can’t because that would require stalking the person to find them, and that’s super fucking creepy. So, you settle for the next best thing, you draw it. You sketch it over and over again until you get it right, and suddenly that woman is in front of you again. I prefer to draw people, because then you never run out of ideas. Faces are so unique; each body is different. There’s billions of people in the world, each one just waiting to be captured; I never run out of ideas. Eyes are like two little galaxies right in the center of the asteroid that is your face.

Putting together a portfolio has been a lot harder than I’d expected. I thought I’d just through my favorite drawings in a folder and call it a day. The only problem is, I hate literally everything I have ever drawn. Mom has always told me that my drawing look like photographs. That’s complete bullshit because you can see fingerprint smudges, and you can tell that one eye is significantly better than the other, and the noses look like shit. I literally want to redo every piece.

I’m not being one of those people that says their work is shit because they’re fishing for compliments, I know they’re good. I’ve been featured in district art shows, and I’ve won awards. And I’m not trying to sound like a cocky asshole either. Art is just the one thing in my life I have complete and total control over, and trust me, I took control. I can choose how it looks, I can make it as perfect, or imperfect as I want it. I had to beg my parents for the best pencils and canvas to use. I figured, I didn’t take music lessons or dance lessons like Zoe did, you guys can buy me some quality supplies. They didn’t want to waste money on the stuff if I wasn’t going to use it. As a child I tried a lot of sports and hated them. When I was ten, I joined the swim team. I practiced every day, for hours. I even talked Zoe into training with me, I made her time me, and yell at me in an angry German accent when I wasn’t making time. Then, after probably hundreds of hours of training, I decided that I didn’t like swimming before I even had the chance to compete. I guess they didn’t want me to do the same thing with art. Mom finally took me to an art store, like a real art store, when I proved to her I was serious about it. It was like going to Disney world. Everything I’ve ever dreamed of was right there in front of me. There was a wall of colored pencils. There were pencils in every color I could think of, and then some, colors I never even seen before. I stood there in awe. It was a game changer to use real colored pencils, not Crayola’s. Larry was so mad, he didn’t understand how art supplies could be so expensive. Well, I don’t understand why someone would spend $100 on a dozen golf balls either, so I guess we’re even.

Since I couldn’t realistically redo every piece of art I’ve ever made, I decided I would just use every piece that my art teacher loved and draw one new piece. It seemed like a good compromise. Miss Schmitt was the only person I really trust with anything. She’s always pushed me to keep going, not to give up on a piece and see it through. She didn’t teach me how to draw, you can’t teach talent, but she always motivated me.

I really needed her motivation now. There was one person I really wanted to draw, but I seemed to have a mental block on what they looked like. Miss Schmitt told me to use a reference picture, but I didn’t want anyone to know who I was drawing. It would make me look psycho, and people finally stopped thinking I was a freak.  I couldn’t bring myself to draw his face, so I drew his body. I drew his New Balance sneakers and his mal fitting khakis. I spent hours trying to replicate the crease down the front of his pants just right. I even made a special trip to the art store to make sure I found the right shades of blue for his stupid stripped shirt. I got an off-white colored pencil so I could shade his cast just right. Evan’s arm may not be broken anymore, but when I think of him, I think of him in his cast, just after I signed it. When everything was still really real and made sense.

I’ve become obsessed with him. How could I not be, he was my one and only friend. Except, that wasn’t true, and he used me for a better life. I really wanted nothing to do with him, but at the same time I wanted to know everything about him. It didn’t help that he was always around.

There was a knock on my door. “Come in” I called, snapping my sketchbook shut. I looked up to see Evan in my room, behind him, Zoe was peering in, almost hiding. “What’s up” I asked them, annoyed. Evan stands there for a second, looking down and playing with his fingers. I cleared my throat to get his attention.

“Um, me and Zoe want to talk to you” he spits out in a nervous stutter. I motion for them to come in. Zoe comes in and sits on my bed, not looking at me. Evan stands still for another moment before pulling the door shut and sitting on the ground where he stood. Everyone is silent for a moment, avoiding eye contact. I cough loudly to end the awkwardness.

“What did you guys want to talk about?” I ask.

Its Zoe that answers, softly, her voice breaking, “I want answers,” she says. Well kid, that makes two of us. “Why did you try to kill yourself.”

I feel like I was kicked in the chest. I don’t really have an explanation as to why. I just did. It was impulsive, seemed like the right thing to do in the moment. I wasn’t suicidal, and I wasn’t depressed beyond my normal gloom and doom. I just did it because I felt like it. I wasn’t feeling helpless or worthless, just bored. Except, I can’t tell her that. “Connor?” she asks. I just stare at her, hoping she will drop it. She meets my gaze and raises an eyebrow. She looks so sad, so broken. I must have really hurt her.

“I don’t want to talk about it” I say.

She sighs and balls her fists and taps them against her legs. She didn’t like that answer. I get it. I’d want to know too, I guess. Except, there’s nothing to know. Except, I wasn’t as important to her as she is to me.

“In the emails you wrote to Evan,” she starts. Oh, great the fake emails, “you were doing so well. Please you don’t need to tell me everything, but I just want to know what happened”

“I said I don’t want to fucking talk about it.” I snap.

Evan coughs, bringing attention to himself. I forgot he was here for a second. He looks nervous, really nervous. I don’t blame him, I could blow up his whole life right now with the truth. “Maybe he needs more time Zoe” he says. I give him a dirty look.

Zoe slams her hand against the bed, “You’ve had months,” she yells, “How much more time do you need. How do you go from climbing trees with Evan to killing yourself in a park?”

“Zoe,” Evan says, “you remember what you read, you don’t want to trigger him.” Trigger me? Okay Evan, you just don’t want me to tell the truth. Evan stands and opens the door, motioning for Zoe to leave. She looks at me again, pleading me with her eyes, then gets up and leaves. Evan lingers for a moment, watching her walk down the hall to her room. He steps back in and slams the door.

“We need to talk f-for real,” He says.

“Oh, for sure” I say, standing up and covering the distance between us until I’m towering over him, “Let’s talk about how you’re taking advantage of my entire fucking family.”

He’s beet red. “I’m not” he says, looking at the floor.

“Hey buddy, we’re not friends, we never were friends, and we’re probably never going to be friends.” I say

“Wh-why not?” he whispers.

“News flash,” I yell, “the first and only time I ever talked to you was when I signed your cast remember? You lied to everyone, and you’re a shitty liar.”

Evan is silent, he’s staring at the ground and pulling at his fingers. I watch him as he scratches his neck, pulls his ear, shifts his weight. I’ve thought Evan and I were the same; neither of us had friends because we were outcasts so to speak. He was just socially awkward, whereas I was the school freak. But I could tell he felt the same stuff I felt. The same wish that someone would notice us, that we were both on the outside, always looking in. Maybe if things were different we would be friends. I tried reaching out to him, but he was too self-absorbed with his own issues to notice me. And now, I am somehow engulfed in his issues. He took my suicide and made it about him. He lied to my parents and Zoe and the whole world. Evan Hansen was a nobody, a barely in the background kind of guy, and now his basically an internet celebrity. And me? People still don’t care about me, but at least they’re nice to me now.

I think that’s why I’m so angry about the whole situation. He got what he always wanted, he got his dreams come true. He got a taste of a perfect life, so he did what he had to do. But it ends now. I hope it was fun and he had a blast while he dragged me along.

“Did you read the emails?” Evan finally asks. I read them. He wrote a story of a perfect friendship. Friends that quote their favorite bands and tells jokes nobody understands except us two, and there’s nothing that we can’t discus, like girls we wish would notice us but never do. He even included me encouraging him to go after my sister. The fucking creep.

“Dear Evan Hansen,” I say, “You either tell Zoe and my parents the truth, or I will.” I open my door and shove him out of my room, “Sincerely, me.