If you recall, I have spoken several times in this blog about my past life in academia, the quarter-life crisis that resulted from it (not the full story), and the occasional spasm of desiring institutional recognition.

I am willingly! voluntarily! going back through the gates of the ivory tower.

I totally vanished* during December and January so here's a very large, very big, very gigantic update on my life, my career, my wanderings, and pre-2023 thoughts.

A small little romp on creative rest.

About finding the true end of a graphic novel.

Okay so it has been a while.

Since the All the Things That Mean Nothing post, I witnessed some more toxification at the peripheries of the digital spaces I am bound to, further shaking everyone else's faith in the constancy of platforms. (For context, I'm talking about the schrodinger blockification of Kickstarter, the fence-dancing of Patreon, and the farcical PR meltdown of Gumroad) More and more I'm thinking, boy, how far into the nuclear fallout of Web 2.0 will I tolerate until I say, eff it and bunker underground?

Well, this is Year 3 of the pandemic. My prediction was right. Internally I'm feeling like a skeleton dusty and dessicated from years of waiting to be rescued from the cave I fell into.

I've been in this webcomics game for... close to 10 years now (if you don't count the 3 years of prep). The second I graduated from secondary school, I jumped right in to launching my first webcomic. Things and mindsets and empires have come and gone since then, including my idea of what success and validation means.

On death and workaholicism and how being an artist of intention requires time not creating.