Printy. Printy printy printy.
WE HATES THE PRINTS, WE HATES THEM FOREVER! SSSS!
Printy.
Today I’m back to filling the print books, which, as I’m mentioned, is a wretchedly tedious job. Next year, I may take y’all’s advice and seek someone local to work for art to take this boring but essential task.
Yesterday, driving home from a party, to a drunken James, I confessed my terror that Nurk’s story would suck donkeys, no one would want it, my agent would have no idea what to do with it and would drop me in horror of this awful piece of drivel I had produced. While artists are, pretty much across the board, an island of ego in a vast sea of insecurity, and the waves roll over the island on a regular basis, this is still a hard thing to drop on one’s spouse all at once, particularly when one’s spouse has spent much of the evening sampling soju, a Korean drink not unlike vodka that comes in a little cardboard container like a juice box, and has been bookending the soju with multiple margaritas.
He rose to the occasion, as he always does. “It’ll be fine,” James said expansively, patting my hand. “Your agent’ll love it, and if she doesn’t, you can make a comic book out of it, and somebody’ll publish it. You’re a good writer. Digger’s won awards.”
“Digger won awards for art.”
He waved this off as inconsequential. “I’ll read it. If I can’t follow it, it might be too tough for kids.” He considered. “Or it might not. I dunno.” He considered again. “Miyazaki’s stuff has plot holes you could drive a truck through, and people love it. ‘Cos it’s real. Your stuff’s real.”
I sensed we were heading into alcohol-laden realms where the word “real” might not have a meaning that the designated driver was familiar with. “Um. Real?”
“You know. Uses…real…stuff…”
“What, like capybaras?”
“No. Maybe. Well, yeah, but no. You know. Like Digger…the universe it’s…it’s…internally consistent. Ties in. Together. Stuff. Descriptions. You know. You’re good at that.”
Whether there was a deep truth or just a Korean booze box at the bottom of this statement, I have no idea, but it made me feel better, and I’m trying not to analyze it too closely for fear it’ll dissolve into liver-killing organic molecules.
I share this anecdote with y’all, not because I require reassurance but because right around Con season, when the artistic insecurities flow like whine for many of us, many of us are freakin’ out. And I recall how an artist once said to me “You freak out, too? But you always seem so calm and on top of things!” And it startled me to no end that anybody thinks I’m on top of things, or somehow exempt from the usual run of insecurities, so I just wanted to assure everybody that I, too, freak out, in case you weren’t abundantly aware of it. There may be a level of success where one does stop freaking out, but I haven’t achieved it yet, and I rather doubt it exists.
But having a supportive spouse helps a lot.
And now, back to the prints…
