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I used to dread the kid's summer vacation. Then, a few years ago, I actually had a good one. I decided to/refused to take on new work or set deadlines over the summer. This was after the wretched summer of 2004, where I had Hardy Boys (late when I got the job, later still when the writer had personal problems), Manga Secrets was winding up (I sent my last pages from a Kinko's in San Diego, then ran to a panel for the publisher), and was on the wrong meds.
Bad stuff.
I learned from that summer. The next summer was the good one. I decided, even though it was hard, to not try out for a book. I had no real interest in it beyond a paycheck, so I already knew it was going to be hard to motivate myself. King was working 16-hour days at a shitty job. Not a lot of time in there to draw 20 pages of comic art.
Sure, it's easy to be realistic about one's chances of being timely when there's eight already-exhausted hours in the day to work. But there's also Christmas 1995.
We were living in Alameda, California, my son was nine weeks old, and my daughter two years and eight months. My son lived in my lap and his swing, while my daughter watched videos non-stop, and I retouched adult comics (I retouched the money pages in a locked room once King was home) in the kitchen. It was about a week before Christmas when I started the burn to finish two books so I could turn them in, get a check, and we'd get on a plane to Texas. In keeping with the general malaise of that holiday, the trip was extraordinarily shitty.)
I had to work all during the day while King was at work, and hours at night, too. I slept about four-five hours a night if I was lucky.
Summer was ill that week. Whenever she drank juice, she'd start to howl like an angry chimp. On Wednesday, about 50 hours before plane trip, I told King she needed to go to the doctor, and if he didn't take her, I would. King unbent and Summer went to the E.R., and came back with the diagnosis that Sum had throat ulcers. She tooks meds and was better in less than 24 hours.
The best thing about the week, aside from surviving it, and not divorcing King for calling me a "bitch" (I think when I said if he didn't pitch in some, I was going to stop even trying--we were both so tired), was seeing "A Goofy Movie."
I finished, drove to San Francisco to Studio Proteus and delivered the pages, got a check (bless you Mr. Toren), and was back in Alameda just in time to catch a cab to the airport. We packed our clothes dirty, we had no time to wash them.
This was about the suckiest week of being a parent I can remember. I had to work, watch two kids, work more, and then get on a plane. No fucking wonder my depression got worse. I didn't like doing adult comics, but the pay was good, I got raises, I got royalties, I got slack, and I had steady work for about eight years. With two exceptions, I also got paid when I turned in the work. Like clockwork.
Okay. Right. Obviously, that week is still very fresh. As I write this, I can see the swing, our little Home Express pine table, feel the weight of my son in a sling in my lap, nursing, see the pages on the table, feel my arm pressing the paper down so I could work with one hand. (Har de har.) I can see the white walls of the kitchen, and remember the smell that reminded me of my Iowa gramma's mud room, I can hear the yatter of a video in the next room, and seize up with guilt that the TV is babysitting the daughter I took to Corner Produce every day for gummy bears and strawberries.
My fingers are stained from leaky Rapidographs and tacky with glue stick.
In 2002, a student at Savannah College of Art and Design asked how having children had changed my comics career. I had to talk very very slowly, and choose words ever so carefully, because when they asked, I immediately thought of Christmas 1995. I know what it was like in 1992: pretty goddamn (let me have that one, okay God?) bad.
Back to summer 2005. No new work taken on. I drew Near-Life Experience. I see from re-reading my old entries we quit the pool in late July due to asshat parents. Other than that, it was so mellow. Take paper and pencil to pool, hang out and draw, come home tired and waterlogged, but not stressed. 2006 was more of the same, but in our own pool. I read, drew, talked on the phone, and no new deadlines. Obviously, we had no idea what was just ahead of summer's end.
Which brings us back to do (as in do re mi). I like summer now. It's fun without new work. It's a time to try something you've never done. Last year was amigurumi, crocheted animals. This year will be laying out Rumble Girls: RLO, trying to sort Nan 1^1 into a viable daily-ish strip (I know I've said that before), and perhaps the larval form of a gn about the fire.
It's nice to have a break from getting a kid on the bus and dealing with him coming home, a break from school bullshit. Cool swims on hot days in my own backyard, where Pugsley can be as weird as he pleases, and I don't have to worry about him or me getting the hairy eyeball.
In just over three months the fire will have been a year ago. My aim is to hit that anniversary with a couple regularly-updating comics and a raft of regular readers and PayPal patrons.
I'm able to enjoy my summer, make new work, and celebrate 1 year ATF because of all of you.
Thanks.
Bad stuff.
I learned from that summer. The next summer was the good one. I decided, even though it was hard, to not try out for a book. I had no real interest in it beyond a paycheck, so I already knew it was going to be hard to motivate myself. King was working 16-hour days at a shitty job. Not a lot of time in there to draw 20 pages of comic art.
Sure, it's easy to be realistic about one's chances of being timely when there's eight already-exhausted hours in the day to work. But there's also Christmas 1995.
We were living in Alameda, California, my son was nine weeks old, and my daughter two years and eight months. My son lived in my lap and his swing, while my daughter watched videos non-stop, and I retouched adult comics (I retouched the money pages in a locked room once King was home) in the kitchen. It was about a week before Christmas when I started the burn to finish two books so I could turn them in, get a check, and we'd get on a plane to Texas. In keeping with the general malaise of that holiday, the trip was extraordinarily shitty.)
I had to work all during the day while King was at work, and hours at night, too. I slept about four-five hours a night if I was lucky.
Summer was ill that week. Whenever she drank juice, she'd start to howl like an angry chimp. On Wednesday, about 50 hours before plane trip, I told King she needed to go to the doctor, and if he didn't take her, I would. King unbent and Summer went to the E.R., and came back with the diagnosis that Sum had throat ulcers. She tooks meds and was better in less than 24 hours.
The best thing about the week, aside from surviving it, and not divorcing King for calling me a "bitch" (I think when I said if he didn't pitch in some, I was going to stop even trying--we were both so tired), was seeing "A Goofy Movie."
I finished, drove to San Francisco to Studio Proteus and delivered the pages, got a check (bless you Mr. Toren), and was back in Alameda just in time to catch a cab to the airport. We packed our clothes dirty, we had no time to wash them.
This was about the suckiest week of being a parent I can remember. I had to work, watch two kids, work more, and then get on a plane. No fucking wonder my depression got worse. I didn't like doing adult comics, but the pay was good, I got raises, I got royalties, I got slack, and I had steady work for about eight years. With two exceptions, I also got paid when I turned in the work. Like clockwork.
Okay. Right. Obviously, that week is still very fresh. As I write this, I can see the swing, our little Home Express pine table, feel the weight of my son in a sling in my lap, nursing, see the pages on the table, feel my arm pressing the paper down so I could work with one hand. (Har de har.) I can see the white walls of the kitchen, and remember the smell that reminded me of my Iowa gramma's mud room, I can hear the yatter of a video in the next room, and seize up with guilt that the TV is babysitting the daughter I took to Corner Produce every day for gummy bears and strawberries.
My fingers are stained from leaky Rapidographs and tacky with glue stick.
In 2002, a student at Savannah College of Art and Design asked how having children had changed my comics career. I had to talk very very slowly, and choose words ever so carefully, because when they asked, I immediately thought of Christmas 1995. I know what it was like in 1992: pretty goddamn (let me have that one, okay God?) bad.
Back to summer 2005. No new work taken on. I drew Near-Life Experience. I see from re-reading my old entries we quit the pool in late July due to asshat parents. Other than that, it was so mellow. Take paper and pencil to pool, hang out and draw, come home tired and waterlogged, but not stressed. 2006 was more of the same, but in our own pool. I read, drew, talked on the phone, and no new deadlines. Obviously, we had no idea what was just ahead of summer's end.
Which brings us back to do (as in do re mi). I like summer now. It's fun without new work. It's a time to try something you've never done. Last year was amigurumi, crocheted animals. This year will be laying out Rumble Girls: RLO, trying to sort Nan 1^1 into a viable daily-ish strip (I know I've said that before), and perhaps the larval form of a gn about the fire.
It's nice to have a break from getting a kid on the bus and dealing with him coming home, a break from school bullshit. Cool swims on hot days in my own backyard, where Pugsley can be as weird as he pleases, and I don't have to worry about him or me getting the hairy eyeball.
In just over three months the fire will have been a year ago. My aim is to hit that anniversary with a couple regularly-updating comics and a raft of regular readers and PayPal patrons.
I'm able to enjoy my summer, make new work, and celebrate 1 year ATF because of all of you.
Thanks.
