I can hear the rumbling of traffic and the nearby subway. Every few minutes the elevator goes “ding” outside the paper thin walls and the air conditioner goes on for no reason and I don’t know how to turn it off. The girls have left for the city and I’m trying to become a human being after another night of too many drinks and hanging out with comics people.
Yesterday we went to the Museum of Natural History and looked at dinosaur bones. I know my dinosaurs. I am one. I’m a comics artist.
Comics is one of the oldest forms of storytelling and at a glance it seems nothing much is happening in the medium. We will be extinct soon, who needs us. Drawing on paper? Words in balloons? How old school can you get!
And then you go to New York and perform at a comics reading in a Brooklyn bar, complete with sound effects and applause from the audience and you think to yourself: I am part of something cool.
This is my second trip to New York Comic Con. Last time I went by myself, not really knowing that many people in the industry and fumbling my way through. Now I know a lot more people, and New York is almost starting to feel like home. But it isn’t. And coming with family this time, I find myself jumping between being a tourist and doing the Comic Con hustle.
Still fumbling my way through, but trying to enjoy myself in the process.
