I found myself compelled, like this weird, shameful compulsion to draw cute animals.

but paper and ink have conjuring abilities of their own. arrangements of lines and shapes, of letters and words on a series of pages make a world we can dwell and travel in.

When we finish a book, why do we hold it in both hands and gaze at it as if it were somehow alive?

This ability to exist in pieces is what some adults call resilience. And I suppose in some way it is a kind of resilience, a horrible resilience that makes adults believe children forget trauma.

Love will make a way out of no way

The strips are nearly effortless unless I am really emotionally upset, a wreck.

When I work on a book, I usually start with a question. And I don't sit around and go "I need to write a book. What's a good question?" It will be a question that's just clanging around in my head.