001. FASTER

And the cycle of ego

According to my scrolling on my tablet, I drew this in January of this year (2024, if you have no idea most days like I do). It was based off a silly photo I took of a barrette and a jewelry box sitting on my kitchen table, but I found I liked how quickly and simply this came together. And after years of gradually self-dissecting on social media and more years of self-reflection after my world was blown apart, I found it was nice to be writing about something other than myself. It was a nice way to start a year in which I was determined to do good things for myself and build my self-confidence.

That didn't work out. Nothing worked out for me or most of the people I care about. It's still not working out. I'm barely working out though I'm trying to remind myself at least a couple times a week.

I used to—as a much more egotistical (relatively speaking) and much less healed and aware teenager and 20-something attempt to write fiction. My ADHD has never been the type to produce periodic novels and oil paintings (amidst a background of chaos of course, but still). I knew someone at the time who meant well and thought I was a good writer who was also constantly frustrated with me for not working on projects and for doing anything other than writing. We clashed because, unlike them, I had interests outside of writing, and I also saw almost every creative endeavour as a form of writing. So as far as I was concerned, I was always writing, I was just going at it from oblique angles.

This is back in the days of writers on social media posting daily word counts and everyone constantly running to the next book or course that promised tips for generating ideas and outlines fast and it was intimidating and exhausting for me. Maybe it's still like that. I wouldn't know because one day when I tried to make my point about all creative endeavours being a form of writing to my frustrated friend, they said, “That just sounds like an excuse. Maybe you weren't meant to be a writer.”

I stopped even trying soon after that.

(I don't blame that friend for the record, they weren't necessarily wrong and I needed to deal with my own fragility. Wherever they are, I hope they've found the kind of success they want with writing, and are doing well, because they deserve it)

I never wanted to make friends with other creative types ever again. Every “creative” community I was tangentially attached to, I kept my distance.

But it startled me when I realized almost two years ago that it wasn't just that I had stopped writing fiction and creating characters, I'd completely forgotten how. I had spent my 30s determinedly figuring out my own brain and psychology and body and self that I didn't know how to create anything that wasn't heavily rooted in representing myself “authentically” (a loaded concept) after working so hard to shed a lifetime of cultivated or commanded inauthenticity that had left me hollowed out, confused, and exhausted to the point of death.

And that scared me. It felt like an important part of thinking and being human, or at least my approximation of both, had vanished.

But with this silly comic that came together relatively quickly, I felt something start to work again. And I felt okay brainstorming the silliest possible ideas, without the relentless self-criticism on loop in the background (or at least it was playing softer). And I figured out ways to make subsequent comics come together relatively quickly.

That last part was new to me. I've never known how to do things relatively quickly, just ask any of my old teachers. Or a librarian, but please don't tell them where I live.

I know this isn't groundbreaking for an (alleged) artist to discuss, but I deal with a lot of shame in how/what/when/why/how again that I make stuff. I don't know fundamentals of jack shit and I'm too fog-addled to learn. And I know so many brilliant people who seem to make the most incredible things at a steady pace and with actual foundational or historical or cultural or political knowledge so they can intelligently discuss their work and art and creativity in general. And I just don't have that because I've spent most of my life 40 levels down exploring the sub-basement of my brain trying to figure out where the source of that fucking mould is. And then excavating new tunnels every time I hit a wall because I will honeycomb this shit until it collapses. That's what I know how to do.

The one art class I ever took as an adult, someone said my line work was very good, and I was like “Yes, I see what you mean, this drawing is indeed made of lines.” I still don't know what that means, by the way. Feel free to let me know, just make sure to talk real slow.

My cycle of sharing my “work” and my thoughts looks like this—I started 2024 at the top point:

After a months-long depressive episode where I've spoken as little as possible, showed things as little as possible, and generally existed in the world as little as possible (that's still not quite over), I feel a push to at least try sort of sharing things I make, and after some valued encouragement from a friend, here I am. Something feels different to me this time around. I think the last few years have changed me both in my ability to make stuff and what I can make and what I'm interested in (maybe) sharing. I know I don't particularly want to do it on Web 2.0 social media anymore. I think a lot of people are feeling that way. Maybe a dedicated organized hub for my things will help. Maybe I'll go bury myself in the yard again for another eight months.

But I want to be able to make things again that are not just—or at least not so transparently—about myself. And Spider & Skull might be a reasonable start to that, as I sit here and 100% violate the exact principle I just stated. But I promise nothing, not even adhering to my own promises, which is why I also promise everything. It's the ADHD curse.