My 3 year old has started expressing every feeling in the form of an ear-splitting, tongue-out, scowling scream, often while grabbing my hips or butt or belly and pushing her open mouth into my flesh. I wonder at the end of each day this week: why am I in such a bad mood? Hmm. Who can say.
I’ve been doing strict pomodoro technique, four 25-minute writing sessions to start the day this week before I get to do other things. Writing is slow but steady. I’m still very much in the first act of the book, and as excited as I am by the shape it’s taking, I’m also absolutely terrified of how long the script already is. In the Sounds and Seas was a tight single-page word document summarizing the plot beat by beat, and it took me 5 years to draw. I’m hoping to get this one done before my oldest graduates college, I guess? I know the value of art isn’t in its speed of production, but parts of the book feel urgent right now and I worry they won’t in (optimistically) 5 years. Plus, when I look ahead at my life and think about how many books I reasonably can make in the years I (optimistically) have ahead, time becomes more precious. Life is short and comics are slow, at least the way my hands and heart can make them. Nothing to do about it but grab my pick axe and head back into the words-mine. Chip, chip.
This week I listened to the audiobook of Sea of Tranquility by Emily St John Mandel, which was thoroughly…fine. Maybe her usual lit fic readers aren’t as deeply steeped in sci fi tropes and would be more compelled, but I guessed the solution of the central mystery so early that I presumed it would be integral to the galloping plot rather than become the big reveal at the end. Guessing an obvious solution took much of the pleasure out of a time travel detective story, even if it was…pleasantly written? I don’t know. Damning with faint praise. I’m underwhelmed and I hate that feeling. I’d much rather read a book I hated that I could rant about. Like: I think I harangued everyone I knew about Nightbitch by Rachel Yoder after I read it in January. The darkest, most viscerally angry corners of my soul were seen and spoken in the the first act, which meant the hopeful and too-tidy third act felt like a DEEPLY PERSONAL betrayal. I ranted about it to everyone I know, which was easily the most cathartic and meaningful engagement with art I’ve had this year. Maybe a future newsletter will just be my angry feelings about Nightbitch and being an artist and a mom? Go read it and get ready, I have OPINIONS.
What book has surprised you recently, delighted you, moved you, infuriated you, made you feel something big? Help me out! My to-read queue right now is all lit fic with plots like “and then the kid totally died” or “let’s go deep on all the ways women are fucked, not in a fun sexy way but in the your-humanity-is-laughable way.” I just can’t go there right now, and I’ve read all the comfort-blanket Poirot books I can stomach.
I’m just generally feeling distractible and demoralized! I’m sorry for bringing this energy to your inbox. Next week will be free of a reflective essay too, for different reasons—our wonderful nanny is on a vacation to Italy for the rest of the month, a trip that has been delayed twice by the pandemic. I’m so excited for her! My mom is visiting for the duration with the plan that she will help out with the kids and I will keep up some work time, but I also just want to spend time all together. I might not check back in until June, other than maybe some diary comics.
Until then, enjoy the sunshine and the rain, you beauties. Grouchy or not, we are alive!
Diary Comics:
I love this & I feel this post acutely--and I only have one child. I look at all that you do & do not know how you manage it. The comics being slow and life being fast is something that is in my system as my comics making gets slower & slower. My new mantra is: I trust my timing. I have come to believe that time is not only an ingredient in my work, but an active participant. xo