Ink Doesn't Lie, I Do ​

The pencil is a coward. You can erase a pencil. You can sand it down, blow the crumbs off, pretend you never drew the hand that looked like a bunch of bananas having a panic attack.

Ink doesn't let you do that. Ink shows up and goes: "oh, THIS is what you meant?" and now it's permanent and now it's a comic.

. . .

Here's the dirty part nobody tells you. Every panel is a lie. You draw a guy slumped over a coffee and you decide he's tired. He's not tired. He's lines on a page. You lied him into being tired. You lied the whole town into existing — every crooked roof, every dog, every disc golf basket nobody ever sinks.

And if you lie well enough, somebody out there nods and goes "yeah, that's me, that's exactly the dumb feeling I had on a Tuesday."

That's the whole job. Lie until it's true. Then ink it so you can't take it back.

Now somebody get me a coffee that exists.