One of the unexpected joys of my career has been sharing what I've learned with other artists.

Over the years I've watched illustration change dramatically. New software appears every few years, new industries emerge, and entirely new career paths open up. I've enjoyed learning those tools, but I've also learned that the fundamentals never go out of style. Great composition, beautiful lighting, strong drawing, thoughtful color, and clear storytelling matter just as much today as they always have.

That philosophy led me to write How to Become a Video Game Artist: The Insider's Guide to Landing a Job in the Gaming World. It was published in 2013 and spent many years helping aspiring artists find their way into the game industry.

Later, I had the privilege of teaching senior illustration courses at the Savannah College of Art and Design (SCAD). Helping students prepare for professional careers was every bit as rewarding as creating artwork myself.

From time to time I also enjoy speaking to students, artists, and creative professionals about illustration, technology, and the adventure of building a creative career. You can reach out to me here if you'd like me to speak.

The idea was solid. I would begin with universal principles of art, devote chapters to the different art careers within a game studio, and finish with advanced digital illustration techniques. Each career chapter would include my own experience, an interview with someone doing that job, and a fictional help-wanted ad showing the skills a studio would actually be looking for.

The publishers loved it.

Contracts were signed. Artists were interviewed. Copious amounts of artwork were gathered.

Then I sat down to write the book and discovered a small problem.

I didn't know how to write.

Apparently knowing things and writing coherently about the things you know are two entirely different skills.

When I talk, I can usually stay on a subject until I've made my point. Writing was different. I typed too slowly. Before I'd finished half a sentence, my brain had already moved on to the next thought—and possibly two thoughts beyond that. Then I'd go back, try to remember what the original sentence was about, rewrite it, and discover that the paragraph no longer made sense.

An hour later, I might have one paragraph.

The next paragraph would veer into oncoming traffic and die in the collision.

After nearly a year of this—and with only a few months left before my deadline—I finally emailed the publisher and confessed that I had no idea what I was doing. I expected to return the money, apologize profusely, and quietly retire from the literary world.

They wouldn't let me.

Instead, they hired me an editor.

This wonderful, magical word wizard showed me that I didn't have to make every thought perfectly connect while I was writing it. I could simply get the ideas down. She could organize them, move things around, and turn the pile into something another human being could actually follow.

I provided the roads and the vehicles.

She directed traffic.

Once we figured that out, the book came together surprisingly quickly.

I learned a great deal from writing it. I also learned enough to decline an offer to write a sequel.

Given a spare hour—or, say, a spare month—I'd still rather spend it drawing pictures than arranging words. I learn best by doing, and writing a book taught me that I would generally prefer to be doing something else.

But I'm enormously glad I wrote it.