"Now keep in mind that I’m an artist,
And I’m sensitive about my shit…"
Let me let you in on a little secret. I’m not really a photographer. I never even wanted to be. I never took a single class for it.
What I wanted to be was an artist. It’s what I dreamed about when I was seven years old. It’s what I went to college for. I wanted to make comics. A childhood fantasy, sure, but its what I dreamed of.
That dream got ripped right out of my brain during school. I gave up. I became a writer, and later when I started seeing that being a writer was no more realistic than being an artist, I became a web designer.
Then I found photography. All the same rules of being an artist applied, just with different tools. And since I was doing it on my own again, there was no asshole faculty members telling me I was doing it wrong. I grew to even think I was kinda good at it. Sometimes I was even happy.
I got even happier when we started doing Hellcats. Lookie there! I was making a comic. The seven year old boy in my brain was shitting himself.
Max and I had this idea of doing a special edition of the book after we finish the second issue (which we still haven’t really started since we’ve been so busy with the comic strip). It would be four shorter solo stories, one for each of the girls. Each by a different artist. Max wants to write one of them as well as draw and it got me thinking that maybe I’d like to draw one as well as write.
God, I’m out of practice with freehand drawing. It’s been years since I’ve really given it a serious try. I totally suck now.
Now I have to decide if I want to retrain myself in the next few months (I don’t know when the hell I’d find the time) or just give up.
*sigh* There are just not enough hours in the day.