I know how to wield "I feel" statements like an emotional ninja. You won't even know I've been in the room, and SWOOSH there it will be: My lifelong baggage, stinking up a corner like a damp bum.
Really, I like to think of it like an old hound dog that doesn't bark much anymore. Instead, my baggage prefers to nap quietly, only stirring lazily when I fling it the odd scrap.
And that, my friends, is how I conjure up fodder for this newest project! Well... that + wine.
It's not easy to pen my weird, inner-most feelings eloquently: To be both vulnerable and authoritative; to make a reader simultaneously chuckle and wrinkle their brow with concern.
But you know what's actual hard work?
Being a comics artist.
The comics artist doesn't mess with frilly words or bum metaphors. Oh no!
He must employ the least strokes, yet reveal a sizable truth in every page. When it works, something tugs at the back of your throat. When it sucks, you feel embarrassed for everyone involved. Even the artist's mom and grandmom.
I'm lucky to have one of the country's finest untapped comics artists snoozing beside me each night, a little rat dog tucked under his arm, a copy of Jack Kirby's "The Losers," folded on his belly.
He is, of course, Reid Cain, SLO's only fake doctor and fake lawyer artist beer drinker kitchen dancer. He works slowly. Methodically. Erase. Draw. Erase.
I sneak around his quivering shoulder as he carves out the scene.
I whisper loudly, trying not to sound whiny: "Can you please give me eyelashes?!"
I am the first to admit that I don't know how long this working relationship will last.