What Character Traits Do Successful Companies Share In 'Good To Great'?

I get a real kick out of turning my selfies into cute, stylized female characters, and the tools these days are wild. For a quick, playful transformation I often reach for ToonMe and ToonApp — they're user-friendly, give that smooth cartoon shading and big-eyes look, and have presets aimed specifically at female faces. Voila AI Artist is another fave when I want the Pixar-esque or caricature vibe; it does that round-eyed 3D look really well. Lensa's Magic Avatars made headlines for a reason: polished, flattering results, but watch the cost and the prompt quirks. If you prefer anime-styled portraits, try 'Waifu Labs', 'Selfie2Anime', or apps that explicitly offer anime filters — they lean toward youthful, stylized proportions. For more control, I use web-based Stable Diffusion frontends or apps that let you run models like 'NovelAI' or custom anime checkpoints; that requires a bit more tinkering but you can push toward a specific character vibe. Pro tip: good lighting and a neutral expression in the selfie give the cleanest cartoon conversion. I usually touch up colors afterwards in a simple editor to match the mood I'm going for, and I love comparing results from different apps before I pick a final image.

I get asked this all the time, especially by friends who want to put a cute female cartoon on merch or use it in a poster for their small shop. The short reality: a cartoon female character photo is not automatically free for commercial use just because it looks like a simple drawing or a PNG on the internet. Characters—whether stylized or photoreal—are protected by copyright from the moment they are created, and many are also subject to trademark or brand restrictions if they're part of an established franchise like 'Sailor Moon' or a company-owned mascot. That protection covers the artwork and often the character design itself. If you want to use one commercially, check the license closely. Look for explicit permissions (Creative Commons types, a commercial-use stock license, or a written release from the artist). Buying a license or commissioning an original piece from an artist is the cleanest route. If something is labeled CC0 or public domain, that’s safer, but double-check provenance. For fan art or derivative work, you still need permission for commercial uses. I usually keep a screenshot of the license and the payment record—little things like that save headaches later, which I always appreciate.

I'm obsessed with getting cartoon art to pop off the page, so removing a background is one of my favorite little makeovers. For a precise, nondestructive workflow I usually open the file in 'Photoshop' (but Photopea or GIMP work similarly). First I duplicate the layer, then use 'Select Subject' or the Magic Wand to grab the character—cartoons often have solid fills and clean outlines, so that selection is surprisingly accurate. I switch to 'Select and Mask' to refine edges: increase contrast slightly, smooth a bit, and use the edge-detection brush on hair or stray lines. Always output to a layer mask rather than deleting pixels; that way I can paint the mask back if I overshoot. Next I tidy the outlines. If the character has a bold black stroke, I sometimes expand the selection by 1–2 pixels to avoid haloing, or use 'Defringe' to remove color spill. For soft shadows, I duplicate the layer, fill the mask with black, blur and lower opacity to create a realistic shadow layer. Export as PNG (or PSD if I want to keep layers). If you prefer free tools, Photopea mimics these steps and remove.bg gives great auto results for quick jobs. I love how a clean transparent background lets me drop my cartoon into any scene, and tweaking masks turns a rough cut into something that feels hand-polished—satisfying every time.

Hunting for playful lines that stick in a kid's head is one of my favorite little obsessions. I love sprinkling tiny zingers into stories that kids can repeat at the playground, and here are a bunch I actually use when I scribble in the margins of my notes. Short, bouncy, and silly lines work wonders: "The moon forgot its hat tonight—do you have one to lend?" or "If your socks could giggle, they'd hide in the laundry and tickle your toes." Those kinds of quotes invite voices when read aloud and give illustrators a chance to go wild with expressions. For a more adventurous tilt I lean into curiosity and brave small risks: "Maps are just secret drawings waiting to befriend your feet," "Even tiny owls know how to shout 'hello' to new trees," or "Clouds are borrowed blankets—fold them neatly and hand them back with a smile." I like these because they encourage imagination without preaching. When I toss them into a story, I picture a child turning a page and pausing to repeat the line, which keeps the rhythm alive. I also mix in a few reassuring lines for tense or new moments: "Nervous is just excitement wearing a sweater," and "Bravery comes in socks and sometimes in quiet whispers." These feel honest and human while still being whimsical. Bedtime and lullaby-style quotes call for softer textures. I often write refrains like "Count the stars like happy, hopped little beans—one for each sleepy wish," or "The night tucks us in with a thousand tiny bookmarks." For rhyme and read-aloud cadence I enjoy repeating consonants and short beats: "Tip-tap the raindrops, let them drum your hat to sleep." I also love interactive lines that invite a child to answer, such as "If you could borrow a moment, what color would it be?" That turns reading into a game. Honestly, the sweetest part for me is seeing a line land—kids repeating it, parents smiling, artists sketching it bigger, and librarians whispering about it behind the counter. Those tiny echoes are why I keep writing these little sparks, and they still make me grin every time.

One of my favorite landmarks in 'The Legend of Zelda: Breath of the Wild' is the Hebra Great Skeleton, and it's tucked up in the frozen Hebra Mountains in the northwest of Hyrule. You can spot it on a high, wind-blasted ridge where the snow never seems to stop — it’s basically a giant fossilized carcass jutting out of the ice, big enough to glide onto if you approach from higher ground. I usually head up early, bundled in warm gear and with plenty of stamina elixirs, because the climb and cold will sap you fast if you try to hoof it without prep. Getting there feels like a mini expedition. From the nearby tower or a high ledge I like to paraglide down and land on the ribcage; the chest and bones are fun to search, and enemies sometimes camp in the hollows. It’s one of those spots that rewards curiosity: you find materials, a chest or two, and the scenery is ridiculous — the way wind and snow play across the bones makes it feel almost alive. For me it’s the perfect blend of challenge and atmosphere, and every time I poke around I find something new or just enjoy the silence up there.

Right off the bat, if I want that Hebra big skeleton down fast I treat it like a mini puzzle more than a slugfest. I always prep first: warm food or clothing for the cold, a reliable bow with a stack of strong arrows, and a heavy two-handed weapon for when it gets close. If you can get height, take it—shooting from above gives you safer headshots and a chance to knock the skull off and stagger it. Its head (or the glowing bone bits) is the real weak spot, so aim there; a couple of charged arrow headshots or a single powerful sneak-shot will often break its composure and open a short window for a critical melee hit. During the fight I kite it around obstacles and use the terrain. I like to circle so its giant swings miss and then punish the recovery frames. Bombs or shock arrows are great for breaking bone clusters from a distance, while stasis or any time-slow effect lets me land big hits safely. If you prefer cheese, rolling a boulder down a slope or leading it onto a precipice gets hilarious results—physics does half your job. When it finally topples, a flurry rush or charged two-handed smash usually finishes the deal and gives me the materials I came for. I love that mix of planning and improvisation; it never gets old when a simple headshot turns a long, clumsy foe into a quick trophy.

Stumbling up that frozen ridge, I found the Hebra Great Skeleton looming over a small depression in the snow — and from my playthrough it's absolutely one of those environmental sentinels that hides a secret. In 'The Legend of Zelda: Breath of the Wild' the Hebra skeleton isn't just scenery; it crouches like a weathered guardian above a cramped hollow where a hidden shrine entrance is tucked away. You don't always get the shrine door flashing like the main ones — it's subtle, usually revealed by clearing snow, lighting torches, or moving a chunk of bone that conceals an alcove. The thrill was crawling under its ribs and seeing the shrine's faint glow below, like finding a secret room in an old library. If you're hunting for it, come prepared with heat-resistance or a few fire arrows (Hebra can be brutally cold), and be ready to manipulate the environment. I used stasis and a couple of well-aimed bombs to clear a collapsed lip and then dropped down into the shrine. The shrine itself is small but clever — a short puzzle that feels thematically tied to the skeleton. I love how these little hide-and-seek moments make exploration rewarding; finding that shrine under the Hebra Great Skeleton felt like discovering a hidden note in a book I thought I’d read cover to cover.

Oddly enough, the history of cartoon fish is messier and more charming than you'd expect. I like to trace their roots back to the very birth of animation — the 1910s and 1920s — when film pioneers were doodling all kinds of creatures, including sea life, as part of experimental shorts. Early animated loops and novelty films often used fish and underwater scenes because they were visually playful and let animators stretch physics for gags. By the 1930s, studios like Disney and Fleischer were churning out theatrical shorts that featured anthropomorphic animals and occasional fish characters, giving those creations wider exposure in movie theaters. So pinning a single "first popular" fish is tricky: popularity came in waves. The medium matured through decades, and then later decades gave us unmistakable mainstream fish icons — my favorites being the bright, personality-driven characters from films like 'The Little Mermaid' and 'Finding Nemo'. Those later hits crystallized what a beloved cartoon fish could be, but the lineage goes back to those early silent-era experiments, and I find that long, winding evolution pretty delightful.