The Last Post

I haven’t posted anything here in FOREVER.

I’ve been thinking; I don’t like this blog.  So I’m making a new one!

I think my problem lies in being fickle.  Committing to a blog is hard.  But still, I figured that I wouldn’t quit the business completely.  After quitting DeviantART (too much discouraging awesomeness there.  I could just stare at their art all day instead of drawing my own.  We can’t have that!) I do indeed find myself without anywhere to post my art!  Its not anywhere near being complete (or even started, for that matter), but go ahead and check out Drew’s Draws! I know I can commit to art, so a blog of art seemed like the perfect idea!

Well, this is it.  From here on out, you can consider the 90s Girl dead (the blog, not me).  Cheers to moving on to bigger and better blogs!

Bon Voyage!

-the 90s Girl


My Hannah Banana

I have a wonderful little sister. She goes by the name Hannah. And she’s a whoppin’ five years younger than me.

Tell me, then, how can it be that she’s already 11… that doesn’t seem very little-sisterly.

One of the most fun things to do ever is to hang out with her, and listen to her talk about her most favorite things in the world. When I want to draw, she wants to put on makeup and do hair together. That seems reversed, doesn’t it? 15, going on sixteen girl saying “Come on, Hannah, lets draw together!” whereas the 11 year old (as of today) saying “Can’t we put on makeup together, or do our nails or something?”

More than once she’s convinced me to put down my pencil and comply. I don’t think many other people could do that. She’s just too fun to be around, to refuse!

At the same time, I wouldn’t call her a girly-girl. Her favorite computer-game at the moment (I do believe she’s actually downstairs playing it, right now) is “the Hobbit”, based on JRR Tolkien’s book of the same name. She has massive fun hunting through troll-caves, looking for lost keys of legend, and discovering wooden chests full of treasures (or, better yet, magical potions!).

She’s an avid reader, as well. Her current favorite books are the City of Ember series. I introduced her to the movie, and then she found and bought the book. She still likes to talk about the deep, dark underworld of Ember, and how the kid heroes Lina and Doon make a daring escape (much to the distress of nearly everyone else, who are intent that Ember is the only city in the world) and thus rescue their little community.

And here she is, turning 11! I helped make a picture of her and her favorite Crew, for the “Birthday Wall”. 

The Birthday Wall is something mom invented a few years back. It started out as a simple “Happy 9th Birthday, Drew!” in colored text with some pictures from Microsoft Word’s clip-art, and it eventually evolved into our most current: A huge picture of my sister photoshopped into the group of the crew in Gilligan’s island, with a large banner overhead (which states “Happy Birhtday!” in large letters, with flowers and sparkles) and flowers and ocean waves, with the cute messy quote “Gilligan hopes you have a neat 11th Birthday” below. You really should’ve seen her smile, and exclaim “Oh that’s so neat…! How’d you do that?!”

She’s the best sister ever, and I simply love having her in my life to hang out with, and talk to.

Happy Birthday, Hannah!


The way Comics are

Here I am, after a good long while of being away, and what do I have to tell you but that I am at the end of my artistic rope. THE END I SAY, THE END! (do not worry, the caps lock was for humor, not for illustration of violent shouting… WE HOPE)

I am here to explain to you what it is like to be a comic illustrator.

It. Is. Frustrating.

Frustrating isn’t even the word, sometimes. After going over the due date twice, it seems as if I’m no closer to figuring out how to draw the lines. And you need lines, for a comic. Outlining; it is key. You see, without outlining, it would look like a pile of gloop, somehow supposed to resemble humans and aliens and starships. No. Not what we want. Not at all.

We want some epic going where no man has gone before. But what you want and what you should expect… oh boy they are two different things, I can assure you. Yes, yes.

But nevertheless, a few days behind, and one page short (yes, I lost a page of my comic) I am here with the scans. Getting ready to color.

I have resolved to sit here -all day if necessary- and get the outlining and cleanup work done. Music shall be played, and scribbling will commence. So, if you’re looking for me, I will be in my room. Drawing ever so frustrating comic stuff. Hopefully enjoying it.

Still, I have one thing to say to you, comic; I SHALL PREVAIL. Because, honestly, I enjoy a challenge. And a challenge is what I am getting.

A random fact; did you know that when drawing expressions, it is common for the drawer to make funny faces? Once I was drawing someone who looked surprised, and my sister glanced at me and started laughing. I promptly asked her what was the matter, and she said my eyes were all big and I was frowning.

Well, I am done troubling you with my art rant.

Oh, and I saw the King’s Speech. It was very good.

Until next time,

Drew B.


The Many Faces of Sherlock Holmes

I want to discuss, in this blog post, the many faces of Sherlock Holmes. So, if you aren’t a Holmes fanatic (or a kindly member of my family, who loves to read my weird thoughts) you should probably close the window. Quickly!

Here are the Sherlock’s I have been acquainted with.

1) As portrayed by Robert Dowey, Jr.

2) As portrayed by Basil Rathbone (oh how I could rant and rave, in pure, wonderful delight!)

3) And the somewhat rough, sketchy Sherlock who appears in my mind when I read.

I have spent quite some time attempting to sculpt a perfect mental image of Sherlock. When I first started to read, I had a normal gentleman in mind. But halfway through the Adventures and the Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes I discovered he did some very odd things, and quickly scratched out the average Londoner image. On the note of very odd things…

ENTER ROBERT DOWNEY JR. SHERLOCK

I accepted the appearance given by this actor, accept for how dirty he was (get a razor. And have the landlady wash your clothes, eh?) and, he was ruder than Sherlock ever was! He also acted insane, and I didn’t picture Sherlock insane. It isn’t that I couldn’t picture him shooting holes in the wall and practicing stuff from creepy black magic books, (which is quite insane) but rather that I’d imagine him doing it with a bit more thoughtful pensiveness, and less clumsy awkwardness, as if he just had too much bubbly with his supper. And though the appearance was mostly wonderful, Robert Downey Jr.’s acting depicted anything but Sherlock.

Speaking of mannerism…

ENTER BASIL RATHBONE SHERLOCK

I could, quite frankly, rant and rave about this subject. I’ll try not to.

The clothes were good. A wee bit average, when out of disguise (speaking of disguises, they were wonderful!) but altogether quite Sherlock-like! And my goodness his face. The man was born to play Sherlock! From thoughtful eyes to the “beak like” (direct quote from Watson) nose, he was wonderful. His voice was also… purely Sherlock-y!

His acting was, well, I don’t think it would be exaggerating too much, to say it was the best in the WORLD! Chillingly calm and composed in the face of danger, sharp and impatient (though not unthoughtful) when dealing with dull-witted witnesses, and messy messy messy! He even found some gloves on the table, blamed Watson for the mess, and threw them over his shoulder absentmindedly. Perfect!

These portrayals have had an influence on my own mental image of dear Sherlock Holmes of Baker Street.

ENTER THAT SKETCHY MENTAL IMAGE SHERLOCK

I’m perplexed, as to how to picture him. Arthur Conan Doyle leaves quite a lot of room for the imagination, as far as the appearance of his much loved character, Sherlock, goes. A few of the only real descriptions we get is that he is rather thin (we also get the drift he is tall) and his eyes have a distant, or far away look to them, which is apparently characteristic of his family.

I have trouble picturing his wardrobe. Does he only halfway button up his jacket? Is his hat rather lopsided? Does he even pay attention to hats? It seems to me as if he is slightly messy, after reading… how he took a note on the cuff of his sleeve… when he had no paper… (odd? yes!)

But despite all this trouble… the lack of description leaves Sherlock so open to speculation! Almost as if he himself is the one constant, unsolved mystery! It’s a wonderful delight, to try and wrap your mind around a diverse character. It’s also a rare delight. Most characters are shallow, and their inmost thoughts and philosophies easy to grasp. Sherlock makes some of the most diverse characters quite… elementary.


NEW THING!

Just a random thingy I ended up trying. It spies on the random robots that automatically read my page.

 

Oh yeah.


Getting the Hang of it

So, The 90s Girl is starting to look a little less like a generic website, and a little more like a full fledged blog. Wee! I am one happy girl. And, I’m starting to find and edit pictures for on here! PREVIEW TIME! Yes. Down there that’s me. Smiling at you. In black and white. IT IS GOING TO BE MY GRAVATAR. Was going to be. I have a better one. Never mind.

I will leave this up, for the sake of it.

I’ve got a few pages up, namely the   Literature section, where you can easily click and find the archives for my In Sherlock’s Shoes series I’m working on. And, I’m managing to get SOME pictures up, at least. I need to get pictures of me and my family. Yes. That will be good. But now I’m rambling. And using way too many short sentences. Not cool, man. Not cool.

So, I shall veer from the subject of happiness to the subject of…

FRUSTRATION

I cannot figure out how to get my tagline edited. It says Livng for Dreams since 1995… LIVNG?! What does that mean, prey tell.

So yes, all and all I am having some… technical difficulties. But over all, I’m getting the hang of it. And I’m all giddy with wonderful blue-skies glee! Happy day.

I don’t even know why I put italics and bold on the whole frustration thing. I guess I’m not as angry as I thought. Heh. Weird.

Well, have a wonderful happy day. I’ve got a three hour car ride coming up. And I need to upload that gravatar pic.

Hoping you have a wonderful day,

Drew Bublé (Hey, that rhymes!)


A Scandal In Bohemia – Chapter 1

The original story may be found in the book “The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes” written by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

A SCANDAL IN BOHEMIA

I

She has always been the woman.

It is not that I have ever felt anything remotely akin to love for Irene Alder. Indeed, I never have – and never will – allow myself to fall into the unnecessary state of mind known as emotion. How much less love! Such things are as poison to a balanced mind. They only serve as increasers of doubt and strife. Still, there is only one woman in my mind which I respect as an equal – perhaps more than that – to myself. Indeed, Irene Adler always has been, and always will be the woman.

There is quite a large amount of optimism in this particular case. I had not seen Watson for over four years, as he had moved out, taking Mary Watson as his wife. Throughout the passing years, something had kept him occupied enough to stay away from our quaint rooms in Baker Street. I assumed he had taken up his old practice, becoming a physician again. I never came to call, for I despise going out into society unless for a specific reason. It is a waste of time and energy, which are inexplicably valuable, being the essence of all things worthy, in humanity. Perhaps it was that it pained him to see me in certain states of depression, for when my overly active mind had nothing to do, it was easy for me to become desperate and adopt means of comfort which Watson thought taxing to my physical and mental health. However, no matter of loneliness could keep me away from my keen desire for the hunt.

I have heard it said that my observation skills are the finest in all of London – a statement I do not agree with. A statement that I do agree with, which holds complete sincerity, is the rumor that I have a keen desire to track down criminals. Indeed, I have gone so far as to develop my own methods of deduction to aid me in this game, and they serve me quite efficiently. Another opinion I agree with (admittedly scorned by some) is that these methods of deduction are more effective than those adopted by Scotland Yard. In fact, throughout the years I have picked up and solved quite a few mysteries abandoned as hopeless by the police. I suppose Watson had read of me, in the papers. For such trivial matters such as my summons to Odessa, the case of the Trepoff murder, and the tragedy of the Altkinson brothers in Trincomalee, had indeed made their way into the public. Nevertheless, all this did nothing to change the fact that Watson had not bothered visited me in over four years’ time. Still, I was sure (and reminded myself often of this fact) that Watson would never completely loose interest in our old partnership, for he always showed a keen fascination for all the cases we deduced and solved together in our rooms at Baker Street.

As it turns out I was ultimately correct in my assumptions. It took a considerable amount of time for chance to lure him toward his old home, but on the twentieth of March at approximately 7:12p.m., the year 1888, he passed my way. The first time Watson passed, he had been going to call on a patient. I deduced this by the purpose in which he walked. He was almost marching – a habit that resurfaced when he was in dire situations, due to his days in the war. He didn’t stop at this time; he didn’t even look at my window. If he had, he would have seen me peering out at him from behind the shutters.

When he made his return, he looked tired and yet, at the same time reassured. Assuming he had been on a house call, his patient was doing well; in any case, it was safe to assume he had received good news after a long period of anxiety. When he made this return I was pacing my rooms in Baker Street, mind racing, exploring all possibilities in different form and pose. He paused, and I knew from the mannerism in the way he tilted his head, looking up, that it was indeed my dear old friend and colleague, Watson.

I opened the door for him, with eagerness. He paused, and looked at me, as I observed him hesitating in the doorway. I waved him in, bidding him to step inside. I grabbed his coat from him, hanging it on a knife sticking securely in the mantle. Afterwards I put a hand on his shoulder, guiding him into a deep green armchair, offering him a cigar.

Standing next to my own chair, which was directly across from his, I looked him over.

“Wedlock suits you. I think, Watson, that you have put on seven and a half pounds since I saw you.”

An old and familiar look of reproach passed across his features, although he tried to hide it. “Seven.” He retorted, in a controlled, calm voice.

“Indeed,” I raised an eyebrow. “I should have thought a little more. Just a trifle more, I fancy, Watson. And in practice again, I observe. You did not tell me that you intended to go into harness.”

“Then, how do you know?”

“I see it, I deduce it.” I glanced at him, drinking in every detail about his person. “How do I know that you have been getting yourself very wet lately, and that you have a most clumsy and careless servant girl?”

“My dear Holmes,” Watson said, a trifle of a smile lingering under his short mustache. “this is too much. You would certainly have been burned, had you lived a few centuries ago. It is true that I had a country walk on Thursday and came home in a dreadful mess, but as I have changed my clothes I can’t imagine how you deduce it. As to Mary Jane, she is incorrigible, and my wife has given her notice, but there, again, I fail to see how you work it out.”

I let out a brief bout of laughter, rubbing my hands together, as was habit, dealing with my nervous energy. “It is simplicity itself. My eyes tell me that on the inside of your left shoe, just where the firelight strikes it, the leather is scored by six almost parallel cuts.” Watson looked at the inside of his shoe, almost surprised to see that I was correct. “Obviously they have been caused by someone who has very carelessly scraped round the edges of the sole in order to remove crusted mud from it. Hence, you see, my double deduction that you had been out in vile weather, and that you had a particularly malignant boot-slitting specimen of the London slavey. As to your practice, if a gentleman walks into my rooms smelling of iodoform, with a black mark of nitrate of silver upon his right forefinger, and a bulge on the right side of his top-hat to show where he has secreted his stethoscope, I must be dull, indeed, if I do not pronounce him to be an active member of the medical profession.”

Watson let himself give in to laughter. “When I hear you give your reasons the thing always appears to me to be so ridiculously simple that I could easily do it myself, though at each successive instance of your reasoning I am baffled until you explain your process. And yet I believe,” he scratched his ear. “that my eyes are as good as yours.”

I picked up my cigarette tin. “Quite so,” I said, selecting one to light, and sinking into the armchair. “You see, but you do not observe. The distinction is clear. For example, you have frequently seen the steps which lead up from the hall to this room.”

“Frequently.” He agreed.

“How often?” I challenged.

“Well, some hundreds of times.”

“Then how many are there?”

“How many! I don’t know.”

“Quite so! You have not observed.” I let my eyelids droop halfway shut, folding my hands. “And yet you have seen. That is just my point. Now, I know that there are seventeen steps, because I have both seen and observed.” I sniffed, glancing at the side-table. “By the way, since you are interested in these little problems, and since you are good enough to chronicle one or two of my trifling experiences, you may be interested in this.” I tossed a thick sheet of paper, died pink with some form of madder (most likely Rubia Tinctorum) in Watson’s lap. It was undated, and no address was to be found anywhere upon it. “It came by the last post.” I informed him. “Read it aloud.”

Watson began reading in his sturdy, unwavering voice. “There will call upon you to-night, at a quarter to eight o’clock, a gentleman who desires to consult you upon a matter of the very deepest moment. Your recent services to one of the royal houses of Europe have shown that you are one who may safely be trusted with matters which are of an importance which can hardly be exaggerated. This account of you we have from all quarters received. Be in your chamber then at that hour, and do not take it amiss if your visitor wear a mask.”

I saw curiosity make Watson’s eyes twinkle. “This is indeed a mystery! What do you imagine that it means?” He peered into my eyes, attentively.

I waved it off as unimportant. “I have no data yet. It is a capital mistake to theorize before one has data. Insensibly one begins to twist facts to suit theories, instead of theories to suit facts. But the note itself. What do you deduce from it?”

Watson tried to find important details. As he glared at the paper, squinting at it, I drank in the entirety of the note for the one hundred and twenty fifth time that night. “The man who wrote it was presumably well to do.” He stated. “Such paper could not be bought under half a crown a packet. It is peculiarly strong and stiff.”

“Peculiar –” I opened my eyes, briefly and pointing at Watson. “that is the very word. It is not an English paper at all. Hold it up to the light.” I moved the lamp towards Watson, who did as I asked without hesitation. There on the paper gleamed an “E” with a small “g,” a “P,” and a large “G” with a small “t”. It was etched into the paper, woven with the texture. “What do you make of that?” I challenged.

Watson looked up at me. “The name of the maker, no doubt; or his monogram, rather.”

I shook my head “Not at all. The ‘G’ with the small ‘t’ stands for ‘Gesellschaft,’ which is the German for ‘Company.’ It is a customary contraction like our ‘Co.’ ‘P,’ of course, stands for ‘Papier.’ Now for the ‘Eg.’ Let us glance at our Continental Gazetteer.”

I stood up and picked a book up off a very crowded bookshelf, carefully running my finger along its pages to a haphazard scrap of paper with an “E” scrawled on it in my own handwriting, which acted as a bookmark for the place. “Eglow, Eglonitz—here we are, Egria. It is in a German-speaking country—in Bohemia, not far from Carlsbad. ‘Remarkable as being the scene of the death of Wallenstein, and for its numerous glass-factories and paper-mills.’ Ha, ha, my boy, what do you make of that?” I tried not to smile, but the way recognition and admiration glowed on Watson’s face told me my eyes betrayed myself, as I clapped the book shut.

“The paper was made in Bohemia,” He said as he put together the pieces of the puzzle.

I smiled in satisfaction. “Precisely. And the man who wrote the note is a German. Do you note the peculiar construction of the sentence—‘This account of you we have from all quarters received.’ A Frenchman or Russian could not have written that. It is the German who is so uncourteous to his verbs. It only remains, therefore, to discover what is wanted by this German who writes upon Bohemian paper and prefers wearing a mask to showing his face.” I heard a carriage, the clatter of horse’s hooves.  “And here he comes, if I am not mistaken, to resolve all our doubts.” I listened to the sharp clang as the bell was pulled. “A pair, by the sound. Yes,” I got up, to glance out the window. “A nice little brougham and a pair of beauties. A hundred and fifty guineas apiece. There’s money in this case, Watson, if there is nothing else.”

Watson adopted an air of uncertainly. “I think that I had better go, Holmes.” He said, preparing to stand up.

“Not a bit, Doctor.” I said, voice changing rapidly from good humor to almost commanding sincerity. “Stay where you are. I am lost without my Boswell. And this promises to be interesting. It would be a pity to miss it.”

“But your client—” I cut off his objection.

“Never mind him. I may want your help, and so may he. Here he comes. Sit down in that armchair, Doctor, and give us your best attention.”

As we had been speaking, the heavy footsteps of a rather large man who was marvelously clad had been making its way towards our room. And as I was conversing with Watson, a sharp rap was heard on the door. We both cut off in mid argument to turn and look at the entryway. “Come in!” I said.

He was tall. Approximately six feet and seven and a half inches in height. He had fine broad shoulders and a thick, heavyset chest. He was dressed in distastefully fine clothing in form of a double breasted coat decorated with bands of astrakhan upon the sleeves and front. His cloak was thrown richly over his shoulders, and it was lined with fiery red on the inside of the richly colored blue faced fabric. It was fashionably fastened at the throat with a beryl broach, and his boots, lined with the fur of the finest wild mink, came up to mid calf. As I quickly took his appearance in, he was adjusting the dark vizard mask he wore on his face with one hand, fingering a wide brimmed hat in the other.

“You had my note?” he asked gruffly, in a commanding manner that betrayed much of his character. “I told you that I would call.” His quick, animalistic eyes darted from me to Watson, as if to seek out our identities.

“Pray take a seat,” I patted Watson on the back. “This is my friend and colleague, Dr. Watson, who is occasionally good enough to help me in my cases. Whom have I the honor to address?” I inquired, as a test of character. Of course, it was already entirely clear to me that he was the future King of Bohemia.

“You may address me as the Count Von Kramm, a Bohemian nobleman. I understand that this gentleman, your friend, is a man of honor and discretion, whom I may trust with a matter of the most extreme importance. If not, I should much prefer to communicate with you alone.”

I was about to answer, when I saw Watson stand up as if to leave. I caught his wrist and planted a hand on his chest, gently shoving him back into the chair.

“It is both, or none,” I insisted. “You may say before this gentleman anything which you may say to me.” My determination won him over.

“Then I must begin by binding you both to absolute secrecy for two years; at the end of that time the matter will be of no importance. At present it is not too much to say that it is of such weight it may have an influence upon European history.”

I nodded hastily. “I promise,”

“And I.” Watson chimed in, to my pleasure.

“You will excuse this mask,” Said the King mysteriously, proceeding to dish out lies of questionable quality. “The august person who employs me wishes his agent to be unknown to you, and I may confess at once that the title by which I have just called myself is not exactly my own.”

“I was aware of it,” Said I, sitting down in my red chair casually.

“The circumstances are of great delicacy, and every precaution has to be taken to quench what might grow to be an immense scandal and seriously compromise one of the reigning families of Europe.” He paused, developing an aura of graveness. “To speak plainly, the matter implicates the great House of Ormstein, hereditary kings of Bohemia.”

“I was also aware of that,” I closed my eyes.

I sensed his surprised glance. There was so much simplicity in my deductions, yet I felt his apprehension grow. If the gentleman had wanted his identity to remain a secret, he should have at least hidden it. If he found that impossible, then he should have come to a less observant man. It amuses me, sometimes, when people revere me as if I were some form of deity of supernatural prowess. I opened my eyes again, deciding to drop the pointless charade of pretense. “If your Majesty would condescend to state your case, I should be better able to advise you.” I watched him leap up from his chair and start pacing the carpet, in complete distress, tearing the mask from his face, and throwing it to the ground in fury. “You are right,” he shouted, all too loudly. “I am the King. Why should I attempt to conceal it?”

“Why, indeed?” I mumbled. “Your Majesty had not spoken before I was aware that I was addressing Wilhelm Gottsreich Sigismond von Ormstein, Grand Duke of Cassel-Felstein, and hereditary King of Bohemia.”

“But you can understand,” he pleaded, sitting back down again in a fit of nervous tension. “you can understand that I am not accustomed to doing such business in my own person. Yet the matter was so delicate that I could not confide it to an agent without putting myself in his power. I have come incognito from Prague for the purpose of consulting you.”

I nodded, adjusting myself in my seat more comfortably. “Then, pray consult,” I said, closing my eyes, preparing to listen.

“The facts are briefly these: Some five years ago, during a lengthy visit to Warsaw, I made the acquaintance of the well-known adventuress, Irene Adler. The name is no doubt familiar to you.”

I let out a mumble of acknowledgement. “Kindly look her up in my index, Doctor,” I kept my eyes shut, blocking out the distractions of the outside world as Watson leafed through my numerous collection of papers and books. I had found that it was useful to make a collection of things and people, and the habits of their professional and sometimes personal life. I imagine that many of the criminals of England would have fervently sought to burn my rooms at Baker Street, had they known how specific a collection had accumulated through the years to my convenience. If memory serves, Watson should have found her paragraph somewhere between that of a Hebrew Rabbi and a man who had written a particular piece of literature involving fish of the deep sea. Presently he handed me the tome, opened to the exact page. “Let me see! Hum!” I put my finger under the lines, tracing as I read. “Born in New Jersey in the year 1858. Contralto—hum! La Scala, hum! Prima donna Imperial Opera of Warsaw—yes! Retired from operatic stage—ha! Living in London—quite so! Your Majesty, as I understand, became entangled with this young person, wrote her some compromising letters, and is now desirous of getting those letters back.” I looked up at him as he nodded.

“Precisely so. But how—” I cut him off; I had an important torrent of questions which must be asked.

“Was there a secret marriage?”

“None.”

“No legal papers or certificates?”

“None.”

“Then I fail to follow your Majesty.” I said, closing the book, letting it sit on my knee. “If this young person should produce her letters for blackmailing or other purposes, how is she to prove their authenticity?”

“There is the writing.”

I waved it off. “Pooh, pooh! Forgery.”

“My private note-paper.”

“Stolen.”

“My own seal.”

“Imitated.”

“My photograph.”

“Bought.”

“We were both in the photograph.”

“Oh, dear! That is very bad!” As the gravity of the situation was realized. “Your Majesty has indeed committed an indiscretion.”

“I was mad—insane.”

“You have compromised yourself seriously.”

“I was only Crown Prince then. I was young. I am but thirty now.”

“It must be recovered.”

“We have tried and failed.”

“Your Majesty must pay. It must be bought.”

“She will not sell.”

“Stolen, then.”

“Five attempts have been made. Twice burglars in my pay ransacked her house. Once we diverted her luggage when she traveled. Twice she has been waylaid. There has been no result.”

“No sign of it?”

“Absolutely none.”

“It is quite a pretty little problem,” I offended him with my laughter.

His eyes were dark. “But a very serious one to me,”

I nodded, in agreement. “Very, indeed. And what does she propose to do with the photograph?”

“To ruin me.”

“But how?”

“I am about to be married.”

“So I have heard.”

“To Clotilde Lothman von Saxe-Meningen, second daughter of the King of Scandinavia. You may know the strict principles of her family. She is herself the very soul of delicacy. A shadow of a doubt as to my conduct would bring the matter to an end.”

I looked at him, through half-lidded eyes. “And Irene Adler?”

“Threatens to send them the photograph.” The poor man stuttered. “And she will do it. I know that she will do it. You do not know her, but she has a soul of steel. She has the face of the most beautiful of women, and the mind of the most resolute of men. Rather than I should marry another woman, there are no lengths to which she would not go – none.”

“You are sure that she has not sent it yet?”

“I am sure.”

“And why?”

“Because she has said that she would send it on the day when the betrothal was publicly proclaimed. That will be next Monday.”

I allowed myself to relax. “Oh, then we have three days yet. That is very fortunate, as I have one or two matters of importance to look into just at present. Your Majesty will, of course, stay in London for the present?”

“Certainly. You will find me at the Langham under the name of the Count Von Kramm.”

“Then I shall drop you a line to let you know how we progress.”

“Pray do so. I shall be all anxiety.”

“Then, as to money?” I inquired.

“You have carte blanche.”

“Absolutely?”

“I tell you that I would give one of the provinces of my kingdom to have that photograph.”

“And for present expenses?”

He took a heavy leather bag out, setting it on the side table where the pink paper had previously been. It landed with a heavy thump that indicated hundreds of pounds, plus paper notes. “There are three hundred pounds in gold and seven hundred in notes,” he confirmed.

I scrawled out a receipt upon a sheet of note-book paper I found under the seat of the chair, proceeding to hand it to him. “And Mademoiselle’s address?”

“Is Briony Lodge, Serpentine Avenue, St. John’s Wood.” He replied.

I uncuffed my shirt sleeve, dipping a quill in ink and taking a brief note on the faded fabric. “One other question; was the photograph a cabinet?”

“It was.”

I let the ink air-dry, dismissing our guest. “Then, good-night, your Majesty, and I trust that we shall soon have some good news for you.” As we listened to the brougham roll down the street, away from our quaint little rooms, I saw the Doctor stand up. “And good-night, Watson,” I barely glanced up, as I stuffed my pipe full of tobacco. “If you will be good enough to call to-morrow afternoon at three o’clock I should like to chat this little matter over with you.”

As it turned out, though I spent the majority the night with my eyes shut, I did not acquire over four hours of sleep. I sat in my armchair, carefully considering the methods which I would take in order to gain the photo from Irene Adler. Eventually, I grabbed the Persian slipper from the mantle, and took some tobacco from it in a thoughtful manner. After stuffing my much used clay pipe and lighting it, I surrendered myself to profound thoughts. After an hour of which I had planned my mission to the very last fine line, finding my mind restless with what the note had brought to my attention. However, as unusual as it were, I found that the majority of my thoughts were not occupied by this – the first case I had had in months – but rather by the man who had come calling that night here at Baker Street. Indeed, I was almost entirely conscientious as to the appearance of the visitor at my door, to the point where I could no longer remain sitting transfixed in one place.

Distraction does not come easily to me; indeed, it is something I normally attempt to avoid at all costs. I let out a long and heavy sigh, which was colored with blue smoke. I left my chair, and for a half hour stood, looking out the window at the bleak, London horizon, and the houses that shrouded it darkly. What crimes were being committed behind the very doors and windows of my neighbors? What cruel fates were the innocent being subjected to, under shallow motive? What was I leaving untouched, that I could be making better? I was just one man; I could only play one game at a time. There would always be criminals that escaped my grasp. How many more were they than I! One man against a thousand; a futile battle against evil. These were the things I normally thought about; these were the things that kept my mind occupied for hours – tonight I found myself in the mood to abandon them.

The sun had long since gone down, and the fire died, when I turned, and left my pipe on the windowsill. Stepping over the haphazard piles of paper, and brushing aside an end-table full of empty glass vials, I made my way across the mess. When I had finally dug my way into a back corner of the room, I made my way to a bookshelf full of oddities and ends. Postcards, gifts, a stuffed duck. An old wooden case.

I picked up the latter with a silent reverence. It had lain untouched for so long that my fingers left prints on it where they disturbed the dust. I had not felt like picking it up for four years, two months, and ten days, precisely. As I made my way back to the empty space by the window, and opened the case with definitive care, memories which I had suppressed for a considerable amount of time surfaced from the deep chasms of my mind. I picked up the wooden instrument, and blew on it. Dust spread across the air, and I held the violin snug against my collarbone, adjusting my fingers accordingly. Then I picked up the bow, laying it across the strings of the instrument, and gently guided it along them.

I was aware of three things happening in a single, fluid moment in time, all at once. A single note, low and sorrowful broke the nighttime air, I felt the sensation of the vibrations of the strings under my fingertips, and my mind became one with the music. Everything melted away. The sounds of the song calmed me, as only music can do. No matter of deducing, injection, or action could ever put me in a state of mind like the violin could. I played deep into the night, singing with nothing but the movements of the bow, and the direction of my mind. The beauty of said song transfixing me, holding me captive. Within the course of three hours, the music purged my mind of all evils, all doubts, all regrets; until nothing but the future remained. A future I knew I had the power to change.

To Be Continued…


In Sherlock’s Shoes

Have you ever read Sherlock Holmes? If so, do you ever find yourself wondering what goes on in that incredible detective’s head? Does he really have a heart of steel? Does he have a heart at all? What is his favorite dinner? Why… does he keep the tobacco… in the Persian slipper…?

These are some of the things I wonder about. Some of the things that I mull over, sitting on my aunt’s stuffed-up leather couch, in her living room.

I found myself unsatisfied in Watson’s chronicles. And I found a solution to my dissatisfaction.

I shall put myself in Sherlock’s shoes. And I shall re-chronicle the stories from his point of view.

So, ladies and gentlemen, I shall endeavor to post the entire book of The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes, rewritten. For your pleasure. Or rather, for mine.

Look at the motif as you will.

But I am going to stop posting from here on out, until I get the website set up properly.

But still, I think a preview is in order.

Excerpted from A Scandal in Bohemia, Chapter 1 page 1, paragraph 3:

I have heard it said that my observation skills are the finest in all of London – a statement I do not agree with. A statement that I do agree with, which holds complete sincerity, is that rumor that I have a keen desire to track down criminals. Indeed, I have gone so far as to develop my own methods of deduction to aid me in this game, and they serve me quite efficiently. Another opinion I agree with (admittedly scorned by some) is that these methods of deduction are more effective than those adopted by Scotland Yard. In fact, throughout the years I have picked up and solved quite a few mysteries abandoned as hopeless by the police. I suppose Watson had read of me, in the papers. For such trivial matters such as my summons to Odessa, the case of the Trepoff murder, and the tragedy of the Altkinson brothers in Trincomalee, had indeed made their way into the public. Nevertheless, all this did nothing to change the fact that Watson had not bothered visited me in over four years’ time. Still, I was sure (and reminded myself often of this fact) that Watson would never completely loose interest in our old partnership, for he always showed a keen fascination for all the cases we deduced and solved together in our rooms at Baker Street.


Just Do It

Currently I’ve been having issues with… guess what?

LAZINESS!

(insert dumby face here)

It is true. Very true. Painfully true… Truly True!

I have decided to do something about it, though. I have decided to get off my bottom, and do something.

You see, here’s my work ethic: “Fine, I shall do as you ask, but very slowly and with a surplus of laziness, procrastination, and with lack of motivation. I will also be happy to cut corners and leave loose ends. Can I go and play yet?”

That, my friends, is a way to make life completely miserable for yourself and the others around you.  And they call me a happy person. Go figure.

Well, I decided to pray a bit, and ask around for advice. I walk up to my mom.

Drew: Mom, what do you do when you don’t want to work?

Mom: I’ve been praying about it, lately.

Drew: Oh. Yeah, me too. I just wanted to know what your look on things was.

Mom: You should go to dad. I admire his work ethic.

Later on, an interesting though rather short conversation makes its way into the odd ball we call earth.

Drew: Dad.

Dad: What?

Drew: What do you do when you don’t feel like working?

Dearest, wisest father stares into my eyes for a short pause, and then makes his simple reply. “I just do it.”

So. There I have it. The answer to all my problems. Just. Do. It. Simple enough, right??? Ah. I see you, over there, facepalming, rolling your eyes, saying “Oh great, lets see how long THAT works, Drew!” and shaking your heads. I know. You pity my sad self.

I should know, I did what you did. I shook my head at that philosophy, I groaned and moaned. Then, after wards, the second day, I made myself a lovely little schedule, like I had done so many times before. Here comes the time, when I’ve finished my essential school work, and I see on my list written “Logic — Questions for Day 2.” I stared at it, and as usual, my thought process began. “You know… I haven’t done logic in so long anyway. I should just do that later. I’ll be done faster.”

Then a little voice rang in my head.  “Just do it.” (How did you get into my brain, dad? I thought you were supposed to be at work minding your own business)

And so, I proceeded to just do it.

And it got done.


(Intro)

An introduction is a very necessary step in any project.  Music, Novels, speeches, advertising, friendships.

Blogging.

Yet, after months of eagerly waiting for my parents to give me the O.K., I find myself in the incredibly awkward situation of not knowing how to introduce The 90s Girl to you. I don’t know on what note to fling it into the world wide internet! Somehow it always seems as if we have a wonderful picture in our minds of how we’ll rock the whole wide world when we finally get the chance to, but when the time comes we get stage fright. Or we go brain dead. Or we fall asleep. Either way, the epic introduction never gets made.

But I like to be contradictory to the world and it’s insights (for instance, being fifteen going on sixteen and shunning nail polish and lipstick all for the sake of saving twenty minutes that might be done doing something really worth it, such as playing video games with my little brother) so I’ll give you that epic intro I was thinking about anyway. Despite not knowing how to. (Tell me, could this be a bad idea?)

First off you should know me, the blogger!

Know Me, the Blogger

Name: Drew Buble. You can call me Drew, Drew B., or whatever you so please. My real name is something I like much better, however I cannot state it on the internet, so you shall have to be content with Emma Taylor.

Age: Fifteen. My birthday is in July, and I am all a-tizzy in excitement. Tizzy is a word, right?

Life View: I am a Creationist. Christian, to be specific! I believe in Jesus who died on the cross to save our sins, even though we didn’t deserve it. I love God to the best of my human abilities.

Occupations and Hobbies: Drawing, Writing, Reading, Sketching. Anything along those lines. You should also know I am a music addict! Very much so, in fact! I also like singing, when nobody is around to hear my (rather ghastly) voice.

Favorite Color: Black or silver or both.

Favorite Author: Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

Favorite Artist: I cannot say. That is a far too difficult question to answer.

Best Friends: A girl I met at writing group (her online name is Ilacene), and Agent M, who also has a wordpress blog. I shall link to it when I learn how to. (for now, you can just search SMLAARG, which is her blog’s name)

Favorite food: Beef stew. Unquestionably beef stew.

Favorite Song: SO many! Probably “If my Heart was a House” by Owl City, at the moment.

Favorite Bands: I couldn’t choose just one. Anberlin, Owl City, Relient K, the Classic Crime. They’re all so brilliant! Look them up now!

Favorite TV Show: Most likely Star Trek: The Original Series. Call me a nerd, because you wouldn’t be lying. What’s so bad about the Original Series anyway…? I like Vulcans. And corny fistfights. Its all in good fun, right?

What You’re in For

If you’re reading this blog right now I suppose it would be somewhat fair to tell you what exactly I want to be blogging about.I don’t really know how I would categorize this blog if I were asked to… probably as a “Personal Blog” or a “Life Blog” or even a “Dream Blog”. I’m not sure. So just read down there, in the following paragraph, and you’ll get filled in.

For one thing, if you follow this blog then mountains of artwork are going to be piled over your bedhead (admit it, you’re in your pajamas right now, aren’t you?) in the most undignified mannerism.  Because I draw tons of pictures every day. I am serious, you know, when I say that I have probably gone through over millions of papers in my life. I buy huge, giant packs of printer paper (400 pages is the norm) as opposed to sketchbooks. When it comes to drawing, whether digital, traditional, or a mix of both, I’m very hardcore.

Writing will also come in heaping scoopfuls. I’m not sure what I’ll post here. Most likely various short stories, or paragraphs of novels I’m attempting to finish. Maybe character biographies, or detailed descriptions of strangers I see that day.

Ranting and raving comes aplenty too. I have a very active mind. And I enjoy talking, so here is where I’ll talk! I’ll talk until your ears fall off! And I won’t apologize because you are warned! Right now! You’re warned! Warned you here me?! WAAAARRRNNEEEED!

I also feel it fair to warn you that you will probably encounter a sprinkle or so of insanity, for good measure. Yes.

I also like to talk about movies, my family, schoolwork, sleepovers, and lunch. So expect a lot of random stuff like that.

Outro to the Intro

Ironic title, up there.

This is all, for the first post. The Intro. If you want to know how and when I will be posting, it is as simple as this: Whenever I feel like it.

That was in jest.

I will probably update at least once a week. Probably more.

Goodbye, and I hope your day goes well, you blog-reader, you!

Drew B.