Parenting Drawings
Dear Readers,
It’s a new month, and as usual I’m going to be approaching Substack like I just learned what Substack was.
These past few months I’ve been working and reworking part of a graphic novel, and it’s been very hard for me to shift my focus (especially when doing so involves tracking my “stats,” an awful thing) so I️’ve been prescheduling all my posts for the month. This month I’ll be back to being present more regularly. I’ll be here thinking on my feet and posting weekly - something for all subscribers, more for paid subscribers. And I *predict* I’ll be focusing on content about parenting because duh. I’ll be more writer-y and personal and less of a gag cartoonist. It’s hard to read the room on Substack, but Stack doesn’t feel like the right place for those cartoons – they’re impersonal. Sometimes I envy artists and writers who worked back when art was more of a disembodied voice. There I said it.
A little life update for you sickos who follow to the confessional stuff. I️ turned 40 last month. I have a rare, February birthday. My second and hopefully last baby is about to turn 1. She’s a pisces. After a somewhat weird 7 months, I️ got a new, wonderfully realistic front tooth. All this is to say I’ve entered a new, more sober, stronger, clearer rung of life. To celebrate, I️’ve been throwing money around a bit. I️ bought myself a silver ring for my birthday, ordered my son a small tungsten cube after hearing one mentioned on a podcast late at night (tungsten is surprisingly heavy - my 4 year old is gonna love it?), and have been providing my baby a shocking amount of kosher chicken, which is even more expensive than what most babies crave: berries. Spending what I️ should absolutely be saving feels just slightly self-destructive and that feels drawing – like walking a tightrope. I am starting to feel like myself again. My pre-kids, post-finding-myself adult self – the one who wore dresses with belts and met friends for coffee. A self who existed for what, six years?
I️ could say a lot more about my kids but I️ think I’m not that kind of artist - one who draws to record wonderful things she experiences - and I’m sad about that. I️ draw to figure myself out - which means I’m entitled to my parents’ and husband’s stories as they pertain to me, but not my children’s. I️t would be like if God wrote stories about us humans and not vice versa. Obviously I’m still figuring this out. Where does it all go?
One thing I’d like to do this decade, if I’m lucky enough, is to get more serious about understanding where stories come from. So there are the fabulists who need to escape - and there are the diarists who need to record - and what else is there and what kinds of mixtures are there? I️ love books so much. Sometimes I️ don’t let myself love the things I️ love enough because I️ know it’s weird to get that obsessed with a thing - and ten years later I️ realize I’ve lost the wonderful education I️ was starting to give myself. When I️ was fourteen I️ threw away my rock collection.
At any rate please enjoy these drawings:
more for paid subscribers below.
