It’s been a rough week for editing. I’m still uneasy about Furlough, and I go between thinking, “For once in your life, finish something, just make it and do it and look at it again later so you can learn what went wrong and fix it next time,” and quailing as I whinge, “But it’s my first big long comic ever and I want it to be PERFECT.” Neither of these are helpful.

I was buoyed somewhat by rereading some of my older writing last night – things four or more years old. I just finished What It Is by Lynda Barry, and she talks about having to wait a while to reread, as otherwise you’ll just read what you wrote with the same part of your brain that wrote it, meaning you’ll have no distance at all, and any criticism will be too close to the process to be at all useful. I felt that, when I reread last night. These things are by no means perfect, or even very good at times (there’s a reason I’m not actively writing on these stories at the moment), but there are some parts in them I really, genuinely like. Turns of phrase, bits of characterization, or most often these moments and situations that I still feel in my bones, that feel as real and immediate as when I wrote them in college or just after I moved out on my own. They’re not perfect, but the enormously reassuring part is that I can see where they’re going wrong. I can see clumsy phrases and pacing stumbles and understand both what went wrong and what I was trying for at the time. It’s not perfect, but I like what’s there, and I’m finding that most important at the moment, because I’ve had a fair amount of creative malaise and despair this week.

John had an excellent suggestion for me when I was bogged down in the worst of this. I’m looking forward to the Comicon in March with equal parts thrill and fear. The fear is very specific, though – what if I don’t have enough finished, what if I don’t have anything good finished, what if it’s me at a table with three zines and wide eyes and regret, etc. He proposed that I make a drawing each day, something that could serve all kinds of purposes. He’s a smart man. It’s meditative, it sorts my mind out like so many ritualistic creative habits do, and it makes me practice my watercoloring, which I’m trying to get better at. It’s basic, at this point, but tidy, which is most of what I’m aiming for right now.

Here’s the drawing from Wednesday:

Penciled at work (the key part), inked and painted that night and the next. Delightfully unretouched and unrefined.

I went to the Mapplethorpe Polaroids exhibit at the Henry Art Gallery last night. More and more, I find that the idea of art as a thousand tiny pieces, rather than one daunting masterpiece, appeals to me, both in others’ work and my own. I think it’s a reflection of how I’m trying to get my own anxious self to approach the things I want most, but there’s also something beautiful about art being made of so many small actions, where you can see each step and movement the person made in order to make this thing. You can lean in close to a painting and see brushstrokes, yes, but there’s something more poignant for me about being able to see the mosaic of it. There’s a vulnerability to it, and an element of invitation – I always think, “Wait, I can do that too. And I do.”

My legs aren’t steady yet, but I’m standing again, and for now that’s enough. I drew a couple self portraits last night, which I’ll post in time. They’re both powerful pictures – me standing, foot on a rock, hair in the wind and looking triumphant. In the other, I’m holding a sword, something I’ve never done in my life, but it’s an image that always attracts me, as I like a certain kind of melodrama and overstatement. Just so long as that overstatement is positive, I’m glad to have it here.