Idumea/cover ideas: Difference between revisions

* [[Rye]], one of the two main characters, generally more of a cozy aunt vibe, tending toward t-shirts and cozy pants

* No Hesitation, a therapist, more enby, a bit more put together than Rye, tending toward business casual

* [[Dry Grass]], short, pudgy, pale skin with short, curly black hair

* Scout is a golden retriever of sorts, looking well groomed and with a nice collar

Here are some ideas from the authors. I am thinking paintings. These can be on wood, given the theme of trees, or on print, given the theme of graphomania (notably, the title is taken from [https://hymnary.org/tune/idumea_davisson a shape-note hymn] which hey, maybe an option). Pick one or two (front/wrap-around or front and back).

The story concludes with the main character turning into a Catalpa tree — yes, similar to the piece you've already done for me c.c It's a recurring dream. As such, she leaves behind a bunch of friends in a state of grief, since whether or not she continues to actually be alive, she's become effectively dead to them. This includes Rye (the narrator), No hesitation (her best friend), and Warmth In Fire (another friend who sees her regularly). The mood could be anything from No Hesitation looking pensive to Rye writing feverishly, to Warmth In Fire looking quite distraught. The tree is planted in front of a coffee shop in a college town.<blockquote>What of the one who goes now to the coffee shop every day and drinks eir mocha by the base of The Tree, eir tail curled over eir paws, and speaks aloud to one who is lost? What will become of em?</blockquote>There might be room for flowers in this, which also figure in the story. One option would be a bellflower (the model for the image used on the back cover of the paperback), but dandelions also figure quite prominently.

The format of the book is Rye trying to write a fairy tale while slowly slipping into an episode of psychosis, which manifests mostly as graphomania, uncontrollable crying, pacing, and so on. There are a few instances of this described:<blockquote>She remembered these things, and I remember these things, just as I, in dreams, remember the sands beneath my feet and the rattle of dry grass in the wind and the names of all things and forget them only when I wake. She wandered the field and lay down and looked at the stars and bathed in memories and I pace the empty rooms of my home, listening to nothing, looking at nothing, clenching and unclenching my fists as I struggle not to reach for my pen, my paper, and instead write in my head.</blockquote><blockquote>The Woman is ''whole,'' my beloved friends, my dear readers. She is ''whole!'' She is ''whole!'' She has to be whole. I tell you, she is ''whole.'' I tell you as I write this with tears streaming down my face and blood soaking my paws from the way that my claws dig into my palms that she ''has'' to be whole. For all of our sakes, for ''my'' sake, she has to be whole she has to be whole she has to be whole I have to be whole she has to be whole I have to be whole for otherwise what will become of me?</blockquote><blockquote>I am struggling and I am crying and I am pacing around my empty house and I am trembling and I am struggling and I am crying and my paws are bleeding from where my claws have pierced my pads and I am having a hard time holding myself down to one set of thoughts to one set of words to one language to the present moment to the living world and I am looking up and within and without and around and hunting for our superlative friend who is The Dreamer who dreams us all and I am struggling and I am crying and I am doing my best not to step away to that sim to that coffeeshop to that tree where I may throw myself at its roots and wrap my arms around its trunk and press my cheek against its coarse bark and weep and weep and weep and weep and weep and weep and weep and weep and weep and weep and weep and weep and weep and weep and weep and–</blockquote>

End Of Ending lives with those she is closed to in a house placed in the middle of a field of fairly well-kept grass (sort of like the field behind a school) which is nonetheless liberally speckled with dandelions:<blockquote>We are, as we are so fond of saying, nominally one hundred, and yet we are thousands more, and so many of us have these fields, or perhaps snatches of field, that are speckled with dandelions. I have dandelions on the little moat of grass that surrounds my patio, just as did The Instance Artist who has since left Lagrange, but beyond the low fence that surrounds that patio lies a field, and that field is dotted liberally with them, and my beloved up-tree, The Oneirotect, will bring over her beloved friend, The Child, and they will race around yan tan tethera in endless circles, playing leapfrog or tag or simply running for the sheer joy of it and then go all atumble, and the white fur of their stripes will wind up streaked with the yellow of those dandelions and perhaps the green of that grass.</blockquote>She goes for a walk at one point and lays down in the grass to let out her emotions:<blockquote>The Woman wandered far from home. She picked a direction — east, if the entrance to that Gothic house on the field was due north — and began to walk. She walked for an hour. Then she walked for two, for four, for eight. She walked until the sun set and then she lay down in the grass and looked up to the stars and remembered all of these things and wept and smiled and laughed and sobbed.</blockquote>She can be any of the three species she usually presents as: skunk, panther, or human.