I have a confession. It is something I try not to admit, but I'm going to test and write it down in the hopes of a magic blog catharsis.

I was a production assistant to Paul Horschemeier while he created books 2 and 3 of the Forlorn Funnies "Mother, Come Home" graphic novel and Forlorn Funnies 6. I scanned, prepped, and added colors to nearly each and page. I also worked on scanning, coloring, and preparing Jefferey Brown's artwork for print in the "Project: Telstar" and "Unlikely".

 
It isn't that I'm ashamed of these actions, as a matter of fact I enjoyed them quite a bit, the problem is that I occasionally live in the shadow of them. How do you follow-up one of the "IT" creators of 2006 without feeling inadequate? Paul's work has since been heralded by Time, Entertainment Weekly, and Rolling Stone. And though our contact was brief Jeffery's work is also equally regarded within the comic industry.

It began with a letter simple enough. I wrote him to pass along how much book one of "Mother, Come Home" had moved me. It is one of only a few comics that I had a visceral reaction to within the first 10-pages. I had a feeling it was going to be something special. I jokingly offered to be his intern, free of charge. He kindly responded and asked that we meet to look into my offer.

It didn't hurt that I was a huge fan of "Sequential", Paul's experimental comics during his college years. In high-school my mom and I drove to SPACE, a mid-Ohio comic convention in hopes to walk-away with some sign that this was my future. We loaded up her sparkly green station wagon and landed in a crummy hotel miles away. SPACE was a dump. After driving a few hundred miles to be greeted by what appeared to be a converted gym was a surprise. The folks inside were equally downtrodden.

I was in love because of this. Soaking up the atmosphere. Speaking with each artist. Asking stupid, pointless questions just to say "Hi". I realized at SPACE that this is what I want to do with my life. In my memory, Paul was the only one there standing to greet shoppers and he even had a makeshift booth. We made small talk, but his comics caught me off guard. They were good, very good. They are the only comics I held onto that day. His 5 minute meeting had an impact on me. He could do this, I could do this. So I started drawing "Nothing Left to Lose".

Back to the present: I began to swing by his place a few times a week. Scan in his art, clean it, adjust the levels, and fulfill any shipping orders. I'd then color the art at home and return the next day with the files. It was an exacting schedule because if the strict printing limitations Paul worked to. To go outside of one line was unacceptable. To miss a deadline was unacceptable. Though, oddly enough, I noticed that Paul expected neither of these of himself. Yet, he still did a great job of putting the fear of God in me.

Sometimes I'd come by and we'd just hang out. He wouldn't have any pages set or shipping was done, and I'd play with Margo, his adorable puff-ball kitten. My job would be to acquire food while he worked. In retrospect, my visits seemed to be a good way to twist his arm to create consistently. I kept noticing we'd miss deadlines but we would be working as hard as we could. The deadlines existed to give him a goal to strive for.

The closest thing I can compare it too was like being in an abusive marriage. We both had gripes but we pushed through the routine with robotic precision. We weren't great friends and that is precisely the reason it worked. We forced each other to get some stuff done. We continued on this way for a long time. Paul's temper (and my own) were bound to clash eventually, but the other shoe never dropped as expected. I was continuing a career as a designer and I was getting tired of spending so many nights commuting. Paul was most likely sad to see my help go but wouldn't miss me as a person. It was a clinical goodbye followed up with a handshake.

I made the mistake of using a quote from an email he'd sent me in promotional materials for "Nothing Left to Lose". It was an overly kind quote, one that you'd give a friend, and in retrospect I may have took advantage of it. Paul found out about it down the line and wrote me a very angry letter, asking that I remove his name from anything in the future. I did and have since.

Here are a few additional bits of wisdom he passed along or that I gleaned while hanging out on his couch, now paraphrased by time:

- The beginning of the story is the most important. Hook them there and it carries them to the end.

- Make every panel "magnet worthy" – worthy of being appreciated

- A deadline is the only way it will be a priority

- When you break a deadline set a new one and don't fret over it

- Conventions matter. Attend them.

- Cartooning is the concentrated act of isolation

- Organize your life so that comics are your priority

- Never lose sight of your mission

- Keep friendships with cartoonists. It is helpful for motivation/sanity

- Be prolific
 
And maybe the most important:

- Have idols that you live in the shadow of  - He painfully loved Chris Ware's work though he seemed to try and hide it due to comparisons
 
Paul is an amazing man, and one of the few truly driven people I have ever met, but I don't think we ever saw eye-to-eye. Even in the end when we'd been working together for almost 2 years. He is also brilliant, and his brilliance is probably part of the problem. I felt over-worked, under appreciated and a bit jaded. I was learning that while I admired my hero, it was questionable whether I liked him.

Today, I look at the recent paperback edition of "Mother, Come Home" and notice my name has been removed. It hurts a bit honestly. I know each and every line of those pages, but that is the price you pay for being on the sidelines. I've listened to this advice ever since. So in keeping, this is the first and last time I'll discuss this here.

- Josh