I’ve finished a self-published thing that I feel good about, even though its subject is a massive bummer and even though this is kind of a weird time (given the state of the world) to be putting out something so interior-focused and solipsistic. In a way, it functions as an excuse for why I haven’t been very productive with previous projects; it’s also something I just felt compelled to do.
Nine Faces of Nothing is a 60-page small-format black-and-white comic collection that looks at the experience of major depression from different angles and in different styles. Some of it is directly autobiographical; some is pretty abstract; there’s some comedy, some very grim stuff, some grim comedy, the kind of self-indulgent formal experimentation that I find hard to resist, and also an adaptation of an early 20th century Gothic classic by someone even less sane than me. I can’t say I have any great insights, and there’s no advice here at all, but maybe it at least succeeds at making visual drama out of some of the failure modes of human consciousness.