This article in my local paper, which covers the Woodbury Gallery’s Eisner Exhibit and Saturday’s mini-convention quotes me extensively.

All they missed was my URL. *sigh*. They have a “leave a comment” feature, though… hint-hint.

–Howard

This weekend I picked up a copy of “OZ F5: Gale Force,” in which a super-heroic Dorothy teams up with the equally super-heroic Tin Woodsman, Scarecrow, and Lion to dispatch the Wicked Witch of the West.

I haven’t had this much fun reading a comic book in a LONG time. It’s published by Alias comics, and you can probably order it at your comic book store for $5.00 or so. The 48-page, full-color graphic novel has the whole story in there, from the crash-landing atop the East Witch to the undoing of the West Witch. And there’s nary an advertisement to be seen, either.

One of my favorite lines: “Umm, Dorothy, if the monkeys where you come from don’t have rocket packs, how do they fly?”

Giggle.

–Howard

I’m feeling a little better. After writing my last entry I wandered around outside for a bit, picked a fresh red jalapeno, ate it, and then picked up my car from the dealer (bad ignition coil, 100% covered by warranty). Outside, plus PTrans depletion, plus endorphins, plus not having to spend money was kind of a boost.

And I HAVE gotten some work done today. My “Rule of Ten” seems to be working. At a minimum, every weekday, I must take 10 rows of Schlock Mercenary through one of the four stages of creation (script, pencil, ink, color). Adherence to this will mean 50 row-stages of work each week, which is 14 more row-stages than a week of comics actually takes.

So far I’ve colored 3 rows, pencilled 3 rows, and inked 3 rows so I’m at 9. And I’m gonna keep working, even if I do feel a little doldrummish.

–Howard

Mood swings, oh how I hate them.

Right now I’ve swung to the bottom of one. Working on the comic is difficult, and planning the work for next week and next month is oppressive. Contemplating financial matters is horrifying. I have a long list of recent personal failures, and each of them stands as if a member of some dark choir. Together they chant something that sounds a lot like “you can’t do it.”

For whatever reason the choir of my personal successes can’t seem to get its collective act together. Maybe the mood swing has scored them into forty measures of lacuna. It’s all I can do to remember they’re there. The lights are off where they’re sitting, so I can’t even look over at them for moral support.

*sigh*