You attend the funeral, you bid the dead farewell. You grieve. Then you continue with your life. And at times the fact of her absence will hit you like a blow to the chest, and you will weep. But this will happen less and less as time goes on. She is dead. You are alive. So live.

The price of getting what you want, is getting what once you wanted.

As far as I'm concerned, the entire reason for becoming a writer is not having to get up in the morning.

Fear is contagious. You can catch it.

What do I do now?” “I don’t know. Fade away, perhaps. Or find another role.

You've a good heart. Sometimes that's enough to see you safe wherever you go. But mostly, it's not.

I was writing the kind of comic that would make me, at age 26 or 27, go down to a comic book store every month and spend my $2. That was my starting point. I wanted to write a comic that I would read. And that's still my agenda.