This is my damn problem as a writer, right now, I have TOOOO many options. I want to write a DOZEN new series. I can’t think which is most important, where to go, what to do, what publisher I’d like to flog it at — I mean prose. And I hate prose compared to comics because I just LOVE TO DRAW. I have Reverse Writer’s Block — I’m like the donkey who starved between the piles of hay.
Every time I want to start saying something, somebody else is writing about it — but that’s always been the case anyway, hasn’t it? I think I have OLD writer’s syndrome, and I keep getting it. Every time I finally make myself do a book, I am convinced I’m just blindly churning out stupid garbage. Then I go back in ten years and whimper, “Why can’t I write like this any more? Where did it all go?”
And I never learn that it’s going to turn around again. At least now I’m doing a fake project — “This Mortal Coil.” I’m asking people to send me a sentence or two about how they want to die, or think they will. NOT whole stories or art — I have no accounting for cash to devote to this, and I’m stealing nobody’s labor. A madman from Iceland insisted on doing his own pages, but he worships Thor. And I don’t meant the comic-book version.
