The most honest, funny, nitty-gritty, cutting-edge work happens in your sketchbook — you don’t have to worry about whether anything is good or bad, you just fart around. And when you’re just farting around, that’s when the good stuff happens.
For the past couple of months, I’d been so focused on what I thought was my “real” work that I wasn’t working in my sketchbook. And funny enough, even after working on several pages of “finished” comics, I still felt unfulfilled, like I didn’t get anything done: my sketchbook was blank, and that was failure. It seemed like my daily life, because it wasn’t chronicled, or at least eluded to, was lost.
So for the past week or so, I’ve been on a diary kick, filling something like five pages a night, right after Meg falls asleep, and before I do, too. There’s something about the twilight of consciousness — it’s kind of a magical time where you pull crazy things out of your ass. One of the things I’ve been doing is keeping my diary entries strictly comics-based: lots of pictures, speech bubbles, etc. Not like James Kochalka, I don’t try to make perfect comics from a moment that captures the day. Something more like Anders Nilsen (his whole book, Monologues for the Coming Plague, came straight out of sketchbooks), where I just try to empty the junk in my head onto the page — fast and dirty.
It’s been really wonderful.
Anyways, I had breakfast this morning with Dan (who also, it turns out, is a fan of Anders), and I wrote about it in my diary this afternoon using my new style. Here’s a couple pages from it: