Larry has been on the judge’s panel for the Illustrators of the Future Contest since 2012. He and his wife Betty reside in Leitchfield, Kentucky. They are proud grandparents of three cute little granddaughters and one handsome grandson. Larry says, “I will draw and paint until I die. I love it as much now as ever.”
How to Become an Illustrator
Over the years, many people that love art and aspire to become an illustrator have asked me, how does one get a job as an illustrator or become a freelance illustrator? Every illustrator has a different story to tell; there is not a set of rules or a single path to becoming an illustrator. It is like asking, how do I become a movie star, or a rock and roll star? There is no simple answer.
You have to be good at your craft, you have to love it and be willing to make sacrifices in your life to get there. You, as a creative person, must play by the same rules as everyone else that becomes successful in their chosen field. You must be extremely good at what you do, work hard, long hours, sacrifice, set goals, and have a pretty good grasp of running a business and being responsible for the financial side of it all.
I used to say, “When opportunity knocks, be prepared to go for it.” But now the world is different. As an illustrator you are not only competing with everyone who to wants become an illustrator in the United States … now you are competing with the world. Therefore, you can’t wait for opportunity to come to you. You have to seek out every opportunity you can think of and be well prepared with a good portfolio.
There are many jobs in the world that only require you to show up, obey the rules, do your job, and draw a paycheck … and, perhaps, eventually retire. But most all of the really successful people that pursue a career in any of the “arts,” writing, music, sculpting, acting, art, design—and the list goes on—are really good, if not great, at their craft. Most are basically obsessed with it. My art is not a job, not a hobby, nor is it something I do until I can retire. My art is an obsession, it is my life … as far back as I can remember. I will never retire and I live to produce more art. If you are obsessed with it, then you have a much better chance of success.
There are a few lucky people in the world that win the lottery! There are creative people pursuing their careers that also “win the lottery,” such as an actor that gets his first break in a movie and wins an Oscar the following year. But this is not the norm. Do not plan on winning the lottery. It takes persistence, top-quality work, delivering on time, setting higher quality standards for yourself, and “knocking on doors.” The publishers or the corporate world are not going to come to you. You have to go to them, keep sending out portfolios and making new contacts. Target the companies that publish art that is similar to your “style” or you know you can compete with. This may lead to your first big break. I am not saying that having a career in the arts is too hard and perhaps you should give up, never, but it is not easy, for sure.
There is one fact that I think of when I am down and it always gives me, and should give all creative people, extra confidence and hope. It is simply this: thank God that the world is diverse in its taste of all things creative. For example, if everyone in the world had the same taste in music, there would only be one type of music in the world. If everyone had the same taste in clothing, art, design, writing, acting, then there would only be one style or one creative person in every field that did it all. The creative tastes of the world are greatly diverse and there is always room for new creative people, producing new, high-quality creative works. As L. Ron Hubbard once wrote, “Works of art are viewed by people. They are heard by people. They are felt by people. They are not just the fodder of a close-knit group of initiates. They are the soul food of all people.”
If becoming successful in the “arts” was easy, then most of the population would be doing it! And that’s impossible, since nothing else would ever get done!
Don’t let yourself become vain and think that you are great, or better than most everyone else. Constantly try to improve your skills. If you are true to your art, then your job is to be as great as you can possibly be in “your own art.”
Absorb other artists’ work. See where they are better than you, study their techniques and learn from them. You must also learn to see your own faults and weaknesses and do not make excuses for them, but learn from self-criticism. When others criticize your work, don’t automatically think someone is being mean and putting you down or is jealous of your works. You will know in your heart when someone is actually trying to help you with honest criticism and also when someone is just being mean. Do not let random comments of “normal” people get you down, either. Remember, “normal” people, or consumers of your art, are usually making their criticisms about your subject matter and not your technique. They tend to look at each piece, one at a time, and decide if they like it on subject matter alone. Your subject matter changes, but it is how you execute your work, your knowledge, skills and techniques, these are the building blocks of your art. You must develop a hard shell, and if you get negative feedback, then take it and build from it. Develop an “honest” eye when looking at your own work.
Consider yourself lucky or blessed that you are a creative person, and if you are reading this, then you are probably pursuing a career as an illustrator or writer. I may have enjoyed pursuing a career in astrophysics, or even driving a race car, but “art chose me”! I am in my sixties, getting older, and I love painting and drawing as much now, if not more, than when I was eighteen. I knew that art was my path, I have worked hard, through good times and bad. I continue to learn and grow as an artist; trying to improve is a lifelong challenge. I have given it my all and I have enjoyed my life. I would do it all over again.
The Dragon Killer’s Daughter
written by
Todd McCaffrey
inspired by
Larry Elmore’s Crimson Dawn
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
New York Times bestselling author and Writers of the Future judge Todd McCaffrey was thrilled when asked to write a story for the Writers of the Future volume 33, particularly after he saw the cover.
He said, “Well, you can be sure that the dragon won’t die, but I’ll be happy to write a story based off a Larry Elmore cover!”
As one of the few people allowed to write in the marvelous Dragonriders of Pern universe, with three solo books (Dragonsblood, Dragonheart, Dragongirl) and five collaborations with his Nebula Grandmaster mother, the late Anne McCaffrey (Dragon’s Kin, Dragon’s Fire, Dragon Harper, Dragon’s Time, Sky Dragons), Todd is used to dealing with dragons—although not those generally chased by knights in armor intent on their destruction.
McCaffrey often writes in other worlds, with his recent near-future techno-thriller, City of Angels, and his forthcoming alien con job, The Jupiter Game, both taking place around our own corner of the galaxy.
With “The Dragon Killer’s Daughter,” McCaffrey took an interesting spin on the old fantastical notion of knights in shining armor and fire-breathing dragons in scales. And, in fact, as you will discover, he veered more from his original declaration than one might expect.
Set in the same universe as his talking-dragon stories “Golden” and “The Dragon’s Child,” Todd explores an earlier time on a fantastic world and shows why, sometimes, killing the dragon is only the start of the story.
ABOUT THE ILLUSTRATOR
Larry Elmore painted “Crimson Dawn” in 1999 for the Sovereign Stone role playing game. Unlike all of the other stories in this book, where the art was created for each story, in this tale, Todd McCaffrey wrote the story for Larry Elmore’s fine dragon illustration, which appears on the cover of this volume of Writers of the Future.
The Dragon Killer’s Daughter
Paksa was ten when the painter brought it: it was a grand painting with Calbert in his dark armor and the dragon in her red scales. Calbert paid for it handsomely, grumbling as he passed over the gold piece even thoug
h Paksa knew he was rich.
“Is it not a good painting, Father?” Paksa asked.
Calbert hung it over the mantelpiece and stood back, admiring it. He shook his head. “No, it’s very good.”
“Then why grumble so over the price?”
Calbert made a face which Paksa matched with big eyes of her own. She was old enough to know that Calbert could rarely resist her big eyes.
“All this will be yours one day,” he told her, spreading his arms expansively to include the house and lands. “This and all the gold you need.”
Paksa couldn’t understand why they needed gold. Oh, it was useful to buy things—even pretty things—and all the villagers were eager to get their hands on it. Of course, there were fewer villagers these days than there had been. That had been another of Calbert’s grumbles. He had said it after calling her in late in the afternoon and she’d found him watching another family, their belongings loaded on their cart, trudging next to their oxen, on their way out of the valley.
“Pretty soon, no one will be left,” he had muttered. It had been a grumble but Paksa wasn’t sure if he’d sounded unhappy or pleased. He’d glanced at Paksa when he’d said it and then had shaken himself, as if to dislodge whatever thought was troubling him. It must have worked because he called for Cook the next moment and ordered their dinner.
After a few weeks, Paksa started noticing some odd things about the painting.
“Didn’t you say that it was all green here in the valley?” Paksa asked her father one day. She pointed at the painting. “That painting makes it look like the village is today, all brown and dusty.”
“The painting is exactly what I asked for, child,” Calbert grumbled at her.
“But the green—”
“Exactly as I asked for,” Calbert cut across her. He turned away from her as though afraid to meet her eyes. Paksa barely heard him as he continued, “One day, you’ll know.”
Paksa wasn’t sure but she knew her father well enough to know when to stop. She resumed her playing. Father had given her a pile of gold pieces of her own to play with. She rarely did anything with them, preferring instead the battered old dolly that her nurse had left her so many years ago. If she ever did play with the gold, it was only to build a castle in which she would put the dolly.
“Why make a castle?” Calbert had asked when he noticed.
“To protect her from the dragon,” Paksa had told him easily. “That way, the dragon will eat the gold and not her.”
“Dragons don’t eat gold, child,” Calbert had said.
“What do they eat, Father?” Paksa asked.
Calbert’s eyes grew dim, wary. “They eat people when they’ve no other choice.”
“And when they have a choice?”
“They thrive on the raksha,” Calbert said, gesturing to the outside of their sturdy stone-built keep. Paksa knew that he would have preferred something smaller but the villagers had insisted on building it for him. It really wasn’t much of a keep: a house with two stories, four bedrooms (two unused), a wall around the enclosure against which the stables were nestled and an archway leading into the bare courtyard. The house itself fronted on the main street—the only street of the village.
“Why don’t they come here then?” Paksa asked. “Everyone says that the raksha are driving out our cattle and destroying our land. There must be plenty for a dragon to eat!”
Calbert nodded. “Plenty.”
Paksa returned to her game.
On her eleventh birthday, Calbert told her the story. He told it to her every year but this was the first year he told it to her in the dining room, gesturing toward the painting.
“The dragon came after the raksha,” Calbert said. “But we’d driven most of the raksha out of the valley so it soon had nothing to eat.”
“And you fought it,” Paksa said, pointing up to the painting. “You rode your horse, Monique, and wore your armor and carried your sharp sword, Vengeance.”
“But first the villagers had to send away for a warrior,” Calbert said, bringing them back to the start of the story.
“And they had to send far away because no one had fought a dragon before,” Paksa said.
“No one had fought a dragon and lived,” Calbert corrected her.
“Where did they send first?” Paksa asked. She knew the answer but there was a marvelous cake waiting for her for dessert and she knew that the story had to be finished before the cake was cut. If she didn’t ask, there was a good chance that Calbert would spend ages before getting to the point.
“They first sent to the city of Varoir—”
“The nearest city.”
“The nearest city,” Calbert agreed. He smiled and wagged a finger at her. “You know this story too well. Just remember, one day you will have to tell it to others.”
A chill ran down Paksa’s back. Calbert had never said that before.
“Why, Father?”
“Because I won’t be here forever,” he told her, his eyes warm with affection. “You’ll have to take care of yourself then.”
“Shouldn’t I marry?” Paksa asked.
“I don’t know if that’s what you want, child,” Calbert said. He seemed about to say more but, with another firm shake of his head, dismissed it.
“What happened at Varoir, then?” Paksa asked, deciding that the story was safer than what had caused her father’s shudder.
“The squire of the city told them to go to the duke,” Calbert replied.
“And the duke was found in Suvre by the sea,” Paksa said, her mouth breaking into a grin as she saw her father’s eyes glow with approval.
“So you can tell the story yourself, can you?” Calbert teased.
“Please, it’s better when you do it,” Paksa said. She thought she might have to use her big eyes on him but he merely snorted and nodded in acceptance.
“Next year, maybe, you’ll tell me the story,” Calbert said. He took a breath and continued, “The Duke, His Grace Davignon, sent me.”
“He sent his best warrior,” Paksa said.
Calbert shook his head. “I wish I could say so.”
“You are the best, Father!” Paksa proclaimed stoutly.
Calbert smiled at her and reached over, tousling her fine black hair. For a moment they were both still in surprise—rarely had Calbert shown such affection. He pulled his hand back, as if burned and examined it as if it were a stranger’s.
“Why did His Grace send you, then, father?” Paksa asked when the silence grew too severe.
“He sent me because he could afford to lose me,” Calbert told her brusquely.
“But you were his son!” Paksa protested.
“I was his youngest son, the last of seven and the death of my mother,” Calbert said, his eyes going moist.
“Your father was mean!”
“He was strict,” Calbert said. “He was fair as well. He gave me my horse, my saddle, my armor, my sword. He told me that what I earned I could keep.”
“He expected you to die,” Paksa declared. She was old enough to hold her own opinions. Calbert gave her a sharp look. She’d never said that before.
“He expected me to die,” he agreed.
“But you didn’t,” Paksa said.
A smiled twitched Calbert’s lips. “No, I did not.”
“What did you do, Father?”
“I rode here to little Levinar, and met the townsfolk,” Calbert told her.
“They fed you a great feast, more than they could afford,” Paksa said.
“They did, for they wanted to show their gratitude to His Grace for having sent one of his own sons to protect them,” Calbert agreed.
“And there was a young lass, one of the prettiest—”
“What?” Calbert exclaimed. “Wherever did you hear that?”
&
nbsp; “And you lay with her—”
“Paksa!” Calbert burst forth from his great chair, eyes flaring with anger, face contorted in rage. “What made you say that?”
“It must have happened,” Paksa said in small voice. “Else how did I get here?”
Calbert slowly sat back into his chair. He dropped his head to his hands and said nothing for a long while. When he looked up again, he said to Paksa, “Enough of the story. This is your birthday, let us cut the cake and get you to bed.”
“Yes sir,” Paksa said numbly. They ate but she couldn’t remember the taste of the cake afterward.
Paksa was careful around her father for the next few months, as they neared winter, fleeing when she could, remaining respectful and silent when she couldn’t.
One morning, however, Calbert asked her, “Why did you say that?”
“What, Father?” Paksa asked as dread certainty supplied the answer.
“That I’d lain with a woman?”
“Well, that’s how children are made,” Paksa said with a shrug. “So I thought that—”
“Never mind,” Calbert told her. He finished his plate and rose from the table. “It didn’t happen like that.”
Paksa wondered why he lied to her. Everyone in the village—except for those still in diapers—knew how children were made. They saw the same thing with horses, cattle, pigs, dogs, even the rare cat. Paksa had learned about it from the nurse before she’d left.
So Paksa was born, like all the others in the village. And that meant that Father had been with a woman—married her in all proper ceremony, Paksa was sure—and the result was herself.
There were so many unanswered questions! What was she like? Did she die in childbirth? Paksa could imagine a raven-haired woman like herself, with piercing green eyes and a ready smile, her face beaming with pride as she wed the famous dragon killer—no, wait! Father hadn’t killed the dragon when they were wed. Babies, Paksa knew, took nine months to grow. But father hadn’t come to the village more than a fortnight before he’d killed the dragon. Did he bring someone with him? No one had ever said so. Maybe because it was all too sad. Where had he meet her mother?