There is a version of creative practice that looks beautiful from the outside: the tidy desk, the perfect playlist, three uninterrupted hours. I have met this version approximately twice.
Most days, making a comic happens in the margins. A thumbnail during lunch. A line of dialogue written while the kettle boils.
The rhythm matters more than the routine
I stopped trying to make every session impressive. Twenty honest minutes became more useful than waiting for a mythical free afternoon.
“Small progress still counts. Messy progress might count twice.”
The useful question is no longer “Did I do enough?” It is “Did I leave the door open for tomorrow?”
Make the next step obvious
I end each session with a note: ink panel four, find café reference, fix that strange hand. It is profoundly unromantic and it works.