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I’ve been writing a lot lately and, like anyone who regularly creates things, I get worried that I’m using it all up, that maybe I should pace myself, but the content seems to be endless.

There’s so much of it. It’s as if I HAVE TO keep going, like a man in the woods who has finally left the house and is excited to be in the trees but afraid of getting lost and so leaving a trail of breadcrumbs.

I think back in my lineage and remember my Great Uncle Jack – the creative dynamo in the family – paintings in the Smithsonian and all that – he started making comics at age 50 or 60 for no one in particular.

I think I was trying to get published at the time, trying to leave my mark as a twenty-something near-homeless, hippie dreamer kid who wrote in his journal on street corners.

At the time, I thought he was the strange one: making something and not really caring about who or how many people found out about it.

But, as I’m learning, that’s the good stuff. And it’s better off on the outside.