There’s a little birdy in my new studio, and it’s singing songs of late hours over coffee, the creak of the chair, the slamming of desk drawers as I search for a new pen, the flutter of thoughts and dreams and hopes scratched hurredly across blue-lined notebook paper.
These last four years in New York–first in Brooklyn, now in Manhattan–have been saturated with self-determination, a desire to test myself and my vision, and no matter what paths I’ve taken, always I have clasped in my right hand the dream that moves me on. Every day, I have taken out my pen and worked a little on my book(s) or my art. Every day, I spend at least a moment thinking of other worlds, worlds created in my head for the pleasure of myself and others, for while our dreams are never truly lost, they may drift further and further away so that we have to cast a wider and wider net just to reach them again, so I keep my dreams always close at hand.
I believe in myself, and I believe in my work, and the fortitude is finally starting to pay off. I have a studio now, with a door and a key and nobody can enter but me. Onlookers may peek curiously through the glass, but I can create in my fishbowl now untouched. And I love it. Back to work. Back to my comics.
Not that I ever really stopped in the first place. Just quietly, diligently toiling away, every day.