I find the act of drawing much more difficult than the act of writing. Maybe it’s because writing, especially on the computer, has a constrained set of marks (just 26 in fact, plus punctuation), so all I need to do is put those together in various ways until I’m happy with them. It’s easy to change those 26 marks at any time and iterate them towards something I like more. I never find myself too attached to any combination of words at any time. (This might also be because I hold myself to a lower standard of craft with words but that’s a whole other thought).

Drawing is different. With drawing, the number of marks is, quite literally, infinite. The effort required to produce a mistake, only to correct it repeatedly, through the millions of possible variations, is orders of magnitude more difficult for me to get something I’m happy with than when I make marks with words.

Because of the effort required with drawing, I’m a little more resistant to throwing things out that I don’t particularly like even though they’re ‘finished’. I say things to myself like, ‘it’s good enough’ or ‘no one but me cares or will notice’. But, if even I’m not moved by the work I produce, why would I expect others to be moved by it?

The reality is, not every drawing is a keeper. In fact, most of them are fishing for the bait that needs to be found to catch the bigger fish. And, as any fisher would know, there’s nothing quite like catching the fish you’ve been looking for, especially if it’s taken much longer or much more effort than you expected.

The story I tell about my journey into illustration goes something like this: I was burned out looking at computer screens in my job as a software designer. My wife bought me a student watercolour kit for Christmas one year as a way to ‘disconnect’. It worked. I loved it. I loved playing once again with physical stuff – water, pigment, time, and gravity. Not only did I love it but it unlocked and entirely new career and feeling of purpose in my life beyond my ‘day job.’

That’s a lot. It’s a powerful story, that’s why I tell it.

But I’ve just spent a weekend sketching and drawing digitally. I have to say, I loved that, too. It’s different, sure. And it doesn’t get me away from the computer – that’s true, too. I can’t deny it though, it’s been fun.

The problem with accepting this is that it feels like it’s challenging my origin story. In fact, I’ve avoided exploring digital illustration work for a long time because of this. My story, as much as I loved it, may have been holding me back.

And now, just because I’m enjoying new things, it doesn’t make that origin story less legitimate, the story remains the same, it’s just a new chapter I’m writing for it – and it’s a good one because I’m really looking forward to what’s coming next even though I don’t know what it will be.

It made me wonder whether others are trapped by their stories?

Nursing, teaching, social work, music, & art are widely known to be some of the least paid jobs in our society today even though, at a human level, we all agree that they’re important.

The thing is, capitalism doesn’t seem to reward (or need to motivate), the stuff we’ll do anyway. Teaching and caring for one another is something that lives deep within our programming. To not do so feels some how inhuman to many (not all) of us. The same goes for writing, poetry, music, and visual art. Telling stories is so ‘below the surface’ of what it means to be human that we’re often not even aware we’re doing it.

In Tolstoy’s Anna Karenina, two characters talk about why they toil on the land in the face of a progressing world when, instead, they could be doing far more profitable things with their time. One looks to the other and says, “I don’t know, to keep the sacred fire burning, I suppose.”

I like that.

I recently worked out that I’ll only be able to read about 300 more novels in my lifetime if I keep going at my current rate. Assuming I live to 80 (the current life expectancy for a male in Australia), and working at a rate of, on average, 1 or 2 books per year, I’ll be able to produce, probably, 50 more picture books – and that’s even if publishers continue to exist, and that those publishers continue to feel like my work is sellable for a profit. (As an aside, I don’t like those chance).

I can’t scale me. Nor do I want to. And so, if I’ve only got 50 more books in me, what does it mean for the importance of each one? Should I pick and choose carefully? How do I make a decision about what to work on? Is it better to be published even though it’s work that may not answer the questions that I need art to answer for me? Or, do I double-down on a private relationship with drawing and mark-making to see what sort of person I become through it, whether someone buys it or not? Right now, I’m leaning to the latter but the allure of recognition and validation of ‘good’ work (aka marketable, profit-making work) is a difficult thing to shake – and I haven’t got long to decide.

Running into the marsh, Laska at once detected, all over the place, mingled with the familiar smells of roots, marsh grass, slime, and the extraneous odour of horse dung, the scent of birds – of that strong-smelled bird that always excited her more than any other.

versus

Running into the marsh, Laska at once detected the scent of birds all over the place – that strong smell that always excited her more than any other. It mingled with familiar smells of roots, marsh grass, slime and the and the extraneous odour of horse dung.

That’s a paragraph from Anna Karenina by Leo Tolstoy, widely considered a masterpiece of literature. The first one is verbatim from the book, the second is an ‘improved’ version, according to AI writing tools. The software tells me that the second paragraph is more ‘correct’. Apparently it’s better because it gets to the point more quickly and it has shorter sentences (and is therefore easier to read).

But, it doesn’t sound the same. It doesn’t feel the same.

I’m often wondering whether how I write and draw is ‘correct’. Do I write the way I write, and draw the way I draw, because I’m just not competent enough to do it ‘better’? Or, is my ‘style’ just my style because, well, I just think it’s better that way – simpler, less ‘technically’ good and more ‘quirk’.

There is, of course, no right answer here, but if art is about feeling one’s way through something, than perhaps going with what feels right might be an OK way to be.

It’s easy to think that if I didn’t draw today, I’m not working my hardest. After all, time on this Earth is limited and I already know I have more projects I’d like to complete and not enough time to complete them before I’m dead.

But some days, the thought of sitting down and drawing is more difficult than others. I’m not talking about the days where I know if I can just get started, things will emerge. No, the days I’m talking about are different. Sometimes, the muscles of imagination and lateral thinking are simply tired.

So, instead of feeling bad about this – like I’m some sort of failure as an artist or not ‘keeping up’ with what it means to be a professional artist – I turn to numbers. Doing accounts, doing budgeting, processing receipts; all these things are necessary to do anyway, so, I tell myself, I’m still working, I’m just listening to what my body and brain needs, first.

It’s not an easy balance. Sometimes, those numbers days are actually just an excuse for procrastination. Doing numbers (or any procedural task) gives me a sense of forward progress and motion that, sometimes, creative work does not. Creative work often needs a bit of back and forth – some iteration to make progress eventually.

On the days I don’t feel like drawing, I need to ask myself – am I avoiding the difficult work? Or, is my body telling me it’s time to rest and come back stronger when it’s ready, willing and able?

I already know this but it begs repeating – one does not always have an idea to draw, but one should probably draw anyway. Mark making, in any form, has an unusual but reliable way of feeding itself. One mark begets another, and another. It’s from this that ideas emerge.

Lately, I’ve been in a slump. Maybe it was COVID but I’ve just been unsure about what to draw. Feeling guilty, I picked up a pencil and begun making doodles – just circles and lines after circles and lines. I began without a direction let alone a destination and, despite an hour of messing about, walked away fairly uninspired – except for a few simple lines.

A few days later, I looked back over the work with the intention of ripping it up and throwing it out but those few simple lines caught my attention.

I’m not sure why, but there was something about the awkwardness of a character that emerged from that aimless session that I found interesting.

From these few lines ran a thread of thought – how would this character look in the various other yoga poses that exist? And, from a question, ran a small project.

Her body shape and ‘normal’ level of flexibility, combined with the challenge of drawing someone like this in enough of a balance (although not too effortless), became a fun half-day of drawing and, because of the momentum, I’m ready to go again tomorrow.

I don’t know how many times I have to write these words in various different ways for it to sink in but it seems to be that, more often than not, ideas emerge from the work, not the other way around.

As we grow from children to adults, we learn things. We learn what’s possible and not possible in the world. We learn that there’s no such thing as invisibility. We learn that animals can’t talk to us as humans can talk to one another. We learn that humans can’t breathe underwater. We learn medicine works better than magic when we’re sick. That certain fruits and vegetables only grow at certain times of a year.

These are all useful things for survival, but not so great for imagining new and different things. Is it a coincidence that adults often refer to children as ‘having imagination’, but often never say the same thing of another adult?

Perhaps imagination is not some gift that only lasts for as long as childhood. Perhaps it’s possible to cultivate it in ourselves by retraining how strictly we accept how the world works as we age. In fact, some of the most ‘imaginative’ stories that exist in our culture seem to be proof. In these stories, there is invisibility, animals can talk, humans can breathe underwater, and magic works better than medicine to cure sickness.

This is not some call-to-arms to let misinformation about the world proliferate in a post-truth era, it’s simply a reminder to myself – perhaps the way to more imaginative storytelling is to think about the rules of the world and then think, what if it wasn’t like that? What if, on a snowy walk one day, I found a fig in winter?

This post was inspired by a quite from Epictetus which reads, “What you love is nothing of your own: it has been given to you for the present, not that it should not be taken from you, nor has it been given to you for all time, but as a fig is given to you or a bunch of grapes at the appointed season of the year. But if you wish for these things in winter, you are a fool.” And while Epictetus was talking about our false sense of ownership over the world and how little we control, the idea of a fig in winter, as foolish as it sounds, feels exactly the sort of ‘nonsense’ we need to embrace a little more in order to fire up our imaginations and create a world of possible in our writing.

This journal runs on a commitment; a commitment to myself that I would write something to my future self once a week – something I’ve learned or an insight I’ve had. I began the practice because I found it useful in helping me learn and grow as an artist and a human. A weekly reflection, so to speak.

The truth is, I didn’t write last week. In fact, this journal project was the furthest thing from my mind for the past fortnight. Why? Because there were more important things to deal with – a family health crisis that needed my full and undivided attention for a while. The crisis moment is over but it’s likely that the next few months, maybe years, will need more attention than I’ve given it in the past; and I value that more than this journal.

If one starts searching, ‘How to be a successful or productive artist’, it won’t take anyone very long to come across what I call ‘no matter what’ commitments. These are artists or business people who say that the only way to be ‘successful’ or make progress with your art is to “Write a page a day, a chapter a night, keep a sketchbook, do a doodle in the morning… no. matter. what.”

But, I’m not sure anyone really means that though. After all, every person is different –  we’ve all got varying levels of actual no-matter-what commitments already; meeting mortgage repayments or paying off student debts, putting food on the table, caring for the ones we love or like, investing in our physical health through exercise and eating good food – all these things take time, energy, and attention and, let’s be frank, are more fundamental to our physiological existence than writing a page a day.

I used to think this journal was my no-matter-what commitment. That’s kind of how it started. And, to be fair to the no-matter-what evangelists, the idea of that commitment has had benefits. But, when it comes down to it, our no-matter-what commitments are fundamentally driven by our values – the things we feel are most important to us at any given time. Right now, for me, that’s providing support to a family that needs it.

This all doesn’t mean I won’t journal regularly – after all, I’m doing it right now – it’s useful for my mental health to write things down and, through this practice, discover and embody what I’ve learned. But if the point of this journal is to help me learn and grow as an artist and a human, maybe, sometimes, I can achieve the same thing by simply being – investing my time and attention in the things that are truly most important to me. Surely paying attention to those things, no matter what, won’t just help me be a person I want to be, but might also turn me into a better artist, too.

Comics is a new medium to me. It looks interesting. After almost a decade of working in picture books I know now that I can draw and I can tell a story. I’m familiar with the length and complexity of the stories that work for this age group. I’m familiar with how these books are used in the home and in school.

But, I’ve got bigger stories to tell.

The first comics project I dreamt up was a multi-book series – a fantasy/adventure. It went something like this:

Thought to be a tale the elders used to discipline kids, The Grey has taken over the world and colour has disappeared. After many years of training, Ri, the best 12-year-old colour hunter from her village, and Yuri, her giant red wolf, set out to bring colour back to the world, just as she was trained to do. But when the Telling Caves don’t provide the answer she believed would come, Ri uses her unique mix of creativity, resourcefulness and friends to rescue the world from its colourless curse.

The manuscript is written (Part 1 is 20,000 words long) and, just based on a few visuals and a storyline pitch, I already have publisher interest. It’s kind of a dream come true.

I’ve tried sitting down to thumbnail this story out, multiple times, but find myself stuck. I’m struggling with flow, dialogue, camera-shot selection, drawing the environment… basically, everything.

So, I’ve realised something (that I’ve also since learned is a cliche), first-time comics creators always bite off more than they can chew. Jim Zub and Kazu Kibuishi have both talked about this in various interviews. The advice? If you can’t write and draw a 3-page story, you’re not going to be able to make a 3-book series at 120 pages per book.

The thing is, I know this. And yet, I’ve walked straight into the same trap.

Building the skills

So, I’m taking my own advice. I’m writing small. And now, with 3 smaller projects under my belt, my confidence in building – both in what it takes to tell a longer story, but also, in using the format for what it’s good for. Making comics is not something you can read a book about and then execute on – it’s like riding a bike – you’ve gotta get on and start peddling.

In a 2023 residency, generously supplied by The May Gibbs Children’s Literature trust, I (to my surprise), made a comic. This Generous Earth was my first attempt and, almost a year since writing it, I can see that it’s rough around the edges but that my heart is well and truly in it.

In mid 2023, I submitted 10 pages of a much longer story that I’m still not ready to complete, Phillip and Crane, to a SCBWI picture book awards category and, sure enough, earned a High Commendation. It’s a super weird story but the publishers saw something. I love that story – it, once again, comes from my heart – but I need some more practice before I can do it justice.

Over the 2023/24 summer break, I found myself staring at clouds one day and wrote a very short story which turned into Evaporation. It’s only 12 pages, but the story is tight. It’s good. And I learned a lot. Especially about how to use colour. (See where I’m going? Colour Hunter?)

The feeling I got from Evaporation gave me momentum. That momentum turned into The Mountain and The Flower. The longest (and most complex story) I’ve drawn to date (~70pp), but I found myself more motivated than I have been for a while. I learned how to take a longer project and fit it in around life and work. A few hours a day (one in the morning before work, a few hours after work). I saw and felt progress. I gained confidence in my ability to draw environments, and texture, and push my use of colour further than what I did with Evaporation.

The big game is approaching

I feel like I’m circling Colour Hunter. Making smaller, lower risk projects and getting to the end, quickly. The stories I’m telling are slowly increasing in page count. I’m learning how to pace longer stories and use colour (and the absence of it) with absolute intention to help enhance the story. I’m re-thinking those 20,000 words of Colour Hunter – how can I be clearer, more compelling, use the medium for what the medium is best designed for?

I’m not there yet. I feel I need one or two smaller projects under my belt. But, I’m moving down the field, one yard at a time, and it feels good.

It might seem disappointing that I can dream up a story I’m not yet capable of making but I think the opposite is true. When we’re making art that’s truest to ourselves, our expectations of ourselves are always ahead of our capability – if they weren’t, well, we wouldn’t keep trying, would we?