‘My old therapist was worried about me publishing this book:’ The Kayla E. Interview

6 days ago 10

Some say that revenge is a dish best served cold; Precious Rubbish, Kayla E.'s first collection of comics, is revenge served with word balloons and drawings. And puzzles. And paper dolls. This is a book that, at first glance, looks–you know–like a lot of fun!

It's not.

Despite its bright colors and generous use of classic children's activity book chestnuts to tell its story, Precious Rubbish is an autobiographical graphic novel about pain, trauma, child abuse and incest. Rough stuff. Stories about someone who somehow emerged from a truly horrific and exceedingly traumatic childhood have been told before–in comics, and many other forms–but never like this one. This is an uncompromising, laser-sharp attack on those responsible for her pain–her family. The author's choice to tell this harrowing story in the form of comics further deepens the effect, as the juxtaposition of the familiar, "happy" imagery against such disturbing memories is jarring. The tension never lets up, even when masked in crossword puzzles or "pin up" pages (all served cold). Perhaps it should have come with a trigger warning sticker.

While this is not a fun book, at least not in the conventional sense of the work "fun," it is a stunning achievement. It's a book that is fierce, slyly witty, clever in all the best of ways, and, ultimately, gut-wrenching. And it's masterfully designed by Kayla herself. This is HER story and her story was not a fun one. And her work is being noticed.. A story that appears in the book, "You Cannot Live on Bread Alone." which first ran in NOW #13 (Fantagraphics, 2024), has been nominated for a 2025 Eisner Award for Best Short Story. In a review of Precious Rubbish, the New York Times called it "a scream as precisely pitched as a middle C from a tuning fork...Her work is such an unexpected mixture of control and frankness that it is impossible to ignore.” The New Yorker said the book is "disarming and disturbing. The clean lines and primary colors, grounded in mid-twentieth-century commercial art, evoke Chris Ware and Ivan Brunetti. The connection is as much in the content—using humor to explore the pathos of a sensitive child growing up in a cruel and indifferent world—as it is in the form. Brunetti praises Kayla E.'s work as 'a triumph of pure resilience―a psychic thick, dark syrup of personal pain, humiliation, and suffering. And it will make you laugh inappropriately (and guiltily), which is the highest praise I can give.'"

Personally, I'm astonished by it. I first encountered Kayla's work via a few self-published issues of Precious Rubbish comics and was immediately struck by her ability to transmit such brutal, personal material in a seemingly lighthearted style that referenced the format of children's comics–Archie, Little LuLu, romance, many others–of an earlier era. Her strips then began appearing in the Fantagraphics anthology series NOW. The work was extremely dark and exceptionally smart. This collection takes that early promise into uncharted territory for comics, or anything else for that matter.

A Harvard graduate and recipient of a 2023-2024 Princeton Hodder Fellowship, Kayla is also a graphic designer (obviously) and works as the creative director at Fantagraphics Books. In that capacity, her work on Bill Ward: The Fantagraphics Studio Edition (Fantagraphics, 2024) has also been nominated for a 2025 Eisner Award in the Best Publication Design category. A native of Texas, she lives in North Carolina with her wife and two dogs.

Back in 2022, when the manuscript for Precious Rubbish was still in its unfinished form, Mark Newgarden and I read it; we then conducted a series of lengthy Zoom sessions with Kayla where we discussed the book and her life. The following represents a much condensed, edited and updated transcript of those conversations.

– John Kelly

JOHN KELLY: You've worked a long time on this book. How does it feel now that it's finally out?

KAYLA E.: It's an enormous relief. I feel a freedom and a lightness that I've never felt before.

JK: It's gotten a great response, with coverage in places like the New York Times, the New Yorker, and many others. How does that feel to have your work recognized on such a stage?

When the New York Times review came in, I was in my hotel room in Chicago with my wife, Laura, getting ready for my flight home at the tail end of the Precious Rubbish book tour. The night before, I had gone out to eat with Laura, Ivan Brunetti, and Chris Ware ahead of my launch event at Pilsen Books, where I had a powerful and brilliant conversation with Ivan about the book in front of a super receptive audience. I went to sleep feeling immense gratitude, like my cup was overflowing. And then the New York Times review came in the next morning! It was incredible. Something in my brain got rewired when I read this passage: "Her older brother sneaks into her room to molest her; her father tells her that her brother is 'in love with her' and rejects her when she comes out as gay. Her mother pretends not to know about the abuse. Kayla, still a child, becomes an alcoholic." The clarity of that language, written in black and white in a major national publication, was so powerful. It was a gift to my child self. The secrets I've held my whole life are finally out in the open. It's absolutely incredible. I haven't gaslit myself since. Releasing the book also generated a feeling like that. And then that review (plus The New Yorker excerpt and recent Eisner nominations) skyrocketed me to the fourth dimension.

JK: Are you surprised by any of the responses?

I'm not. I recently stumbled across this clip from a New York Times interview with Miranda July, and when they asked if she anticipated the success of All Fours, she said, "That was what the book was for. That was the intended goal of the book…I'm the one who did it, and it wasn't by accident." I feel the exact same way.

However, before I sold the book to Fantagraphics, I had no idea anyone would ever read my work. I imagined that if I ended up publishing my comics someday down the line, at best, I would be an obscure experimental cartoonist whose work didn't reach many people. But something in me changed when I sold the book. And then something changed again when I started sharing excerpts of the work with readers.

I decided to believe with my whole heart that Precious Rubbish is valuable, both as a work of art and as a tool for healing. I have since become my biggest advocate. No one believes in this book more than me (except for maybe my wife, Laura). I am a fighter for it. There have definitely been a few moments along the way where I've felt discouraged or discounted. I think that is one of those things that many of us in a lot of industries feel — the fear that you're overselling yourself, or that you should be taking up less space. But I refuse to give up. I see firsthand the impact this work has on readers. I know that it can be used as a tool for good and I am determined to get it read. I have worked so hard to make this book a success. So no, I am not surprised by the response. But I am definitely delighted and grateful.

JK: Has there been any response from your family?

Not a peep.

JK: I’d like to talk about how your work functions visually. Mark, what do you think Kayla's choice in referencing mid-century children's comics brings to the stories that she's telling? How would it work differently if she was doing it in a different way?

MARK NEWGARDEN: It's a strategic use of this material. She uses it more as style than as form. Her form is really completely personal. The only thing I could even begin to compare her work to is a Road Runner cartoon where the coyote is just perpetually hit every 16 and a half seconds.

It's wild that you say that because I use Road Runner as an example when I talk about my work!

MN: That's one of the few things I can really compare it to. But, style in comics is a costume change. It's very intentional; it's artifice designed to communicate something through a particular lens. So you’re using this lens of innocence to tell very, very intense stories of innocence betrayed. So it makes perfect sense.

JK: I think I find that it also makes them more disturbing. We're used to reading lighthearted material in that lens.

MN: It goes back to Tijuana Bibles. It’s taking something iconic and subverting it, making it visceral and personal. It’s a good way of attracting readers because it’s fishing with such familiar bait.

Where it gets different for Kayla, though, is that you’re actually taking, at times, stuff that’s fairly off the pop cultural map.

This is true.

MN: It’s stuff that may not be directly recognizable. But in a more generic way, you’re saying, “This is what 20th century innocence, and kid-lit pop culture looked like, and here’s my own particular 21st century experience projected onto that.”

That’s right! I’m interested in subverting the plucky 1950s, proto-feminist girl character and showing what actually happens to little kids. What happened to little kids in the fifties, what happened to little kids in the nineties. What’s happening to them now.

But I do genuinely love and admire the source material I use.

MN: Did you make any “finds” while researching vintage kids comics? Who are the characters and cartoonists of that era that speak to you the most?

I use the few issues of Sweetie Pie that exist as reference material all the time, specifically for “Li’l Kayla” poses. I also go back to the violence of Little Audrey quite often. There’s a lot of corporal punishment in these kids comics. Like, a lot. There are absolutely deranged characters in the Jolly Jingles “Fun For All and All For Fun” activity pages that are so delightful and off-putting, and I love turning them into various versions of “Kayla.” Right now, Li’l Jinx is my go-to. The page designs in those comics are so formally inventive and Joe Edwards, the creator, plays around with typography, negative space, scale and perspective in really fun ways. There’s also a decent amount of punishment inflicted by the father that just doesn’t sit right with me, which makes for very interesting source material, considering my own relationship with my bio dad. I also love Happy Jack by George Peltz.

MN: Could you ever imagine yourself making work for kids?

Laura and I are always brainstorming ideas for kids' books we could make together. The funniest (and most ridiculous) one is called Merfi’s Big Ask, about our pitbull puppy Merfi who is kind of chunky. It’s about her asking for more and more things and bumping into stuff and knocking things over along the way.

But in all seriousness, I have had aspirations to make kids books since I was a teenager and hope to put one out in the coming years.

MN: Who is the audience for your work?

[Laughs] Everyone! Except for kids, actually.

MN: I can totally imagine a world of readers in their teens or twenties who’ve never seen a real Little Lulu comic and only end up knowing it through the lens of Kayla.

That’s so funny to think about! I’ve met a lot of young adults who have told me they’ve never read a 1950s comic. They’ll come to my table at comics fests because they’re drawn to the colors and drawing style and they say something like, “Ooh this is so pretty. I love the way this looks!” That’s often the thing that draws people in.

I connect so easily with teenagers and young adults. They wear their hearts on their sleeves! They’re so vulnerable and in touch with their feelings, and I think that when they encounter my work, the aesthetics are what draw them in, but the vulnerability and pain in the work is what keeps them invested. I hope that I reach as many young adults as possible.

MN: You’re referencing a lot of really high functioning craft comics, so that makes sense. They’re a natural attractor. A lot of memoir comics I see now are not something designed to catch the eye in that way or function like that.

JK: There was a reason why those comics were as popular as they were at the time, and it’s because they were well designed and well crafted. I came to your work having been influenced by those comics. I read them and I loved them.

Your work is extremely focused on doing something that’s very personal and you have a very clear goal. I think if I were a younger artist in comics that I might be intimidated by your stuff.

Huh. Well, hopefully when people meet me they’re not intimidated anymore! But in general, I see all art making as valuable.

I know this is not a super common perspective, especially for creative people who tend to be a little judgmental, but I think that there’s something holy and beautiful about any human being making art. Whether it’s someone drawing comics at a really high level, experimenting with paint-by-numbers, or just doodling stick figures; whatever it is that compels us to create is a kind of magic. I especially try to be supportive of any artist who’s doing the labor and the emotional work of putting themselves out there by making zines and printed matter. Comics and self- publishing involve hard work and it costs money, and there’s little to no reward in it. I think it’s essential to be kind to one another.

But a decade ago, I was at a very different place in my practice. I did not have my shit together. My work was not cohesive and my understanding of the work wasn’t cohesive. I had no idea what I was doing, I just felt compelled. I felt compelled to make these comics and couldn’t tell you who they were for or who was supposed to read them.

I think that the only reason why I’m able to communicate and present so well now is that I’ve put an intense amount of recovery work into my life, which is absolutely married to my practice; they go hand in hand. My life is together, so my work is together.

JK: Mark, what about you? You’re teaching people who are interested in doing autobiographical comics. What are you seeing?

MN: Most of the students I see who are putting themselves in their comics are not doing things on this level. It’s much more sort of...superficial is not fair, but there is not often such an intense inner scrutiny. I always have Glenn Head come and talk to my classes. Glenn and I went to school together; we go way back and he’s a good class guest. He’s working on the third book in his autobiographical trilogy now, and he’s been making autobiographical comics for about as long as I’ve known him. One of the things that he stresses (and Bill Griffith has echoed the same thing to me) is that he must get some serious time and distance from his subject matter before he can even begin to make work about it.

Kayla’s the exact opposite. Kayla’s bleeding out in the operating room and making comics as it's happening.

[Laughs] Truth!

MN: The doctors are working in there with pinchy metal things, and you’re screaming and writhing and making comics. I can’t quite get my head around that. I’ve never done any overt autobiographical stuff, although I may need to at some point, but I do know that I’ll need to know how the story ends before I can begin it. Yours is such a different approach, more like a high-wire act.

It really is. For me, the more I figure things out, I just remake the comics. I redraw and rewrite them in real time.

MN: It’s really interesting to hear you say that because it’s something I’ve been thinking about. There you were, working on the book and you were still processing this stuff. You were still digesting it. You were still working your way through it. And that can take a long time.

It’ll likely take a lifetime. But that’s true for the kind of trauma that I’ve endured. It’s like my alcoholism: I’ll always be an alcoholic. I don’t believe that I’ll ever be cured from my alcoholism. My disease pops up all the time, every day, no matter how much prayer and meditation I do. I think it’s similar for people who get triggered and are processing things with sexual abuse. It gets better as you heal, but it never goes away.

I remember a few months ago, I was like, “You know what? I did have a bad childhood!” I can accept that now. Yes, it was very bad. It was very, very bad. This happened after watching a true crime series that dove into the childhood and backgrounds of murderers. I was like, “Oh, I can relate to all eight of these horrors that this person has experienced and then they went on and became a serial killer.” Consuming content like that helps me. It mirrors my childhood. Because if those experiences turned that person into a literal serial killer, and I can relate to that, then yes, my childhood was bad! And so that was something that clicked.

Recovery is tricky. Trauma recovery, especially, is very rollercoaster-y. And I think that I’m on an upward trajectory, but there have been some days in the recent past where I just don’t believe it. I tell myself, “That didn’t happen to me and none of it was real.” But ever since that New York Times review was published, my mind hasn’t tried to play that trick on me.

I’m glad that I’m able to make the work when I’m being operated on because, otherwise, I don’t know if I’d ever be at a place where I can look at it retrospectively and be able to tell a clear and accurate story.

MN: Most people wait decades.

That’s right. And that’s really interesting, too. Whenever I’m talking to other cartoonists who are thinking about dabbling into autobiography, I generally try to be as encouraging as possible, unless they disclose to me that the content they want to make is trauma-related. In those cases, I try to express caution, especially when the person hasn’t spent much time in therapy. If they’re really young and actively in the middle of the trauma, it could potentially be dangerous. Especially if they don’t have the right support system, or the necessary distance from their abusers.

MN: Yes.

It can also be destabilizing. I started making Precious Rubbish in 2013, and I was in no condition to be delving into that subject matter. I was still in active contact with pretty much every single person that’s ever harmed me in my life. My abusers were my whole community. And that went hand-in-hand with my drinking problem. It was a vicious cycle. The way that I made most of these comics was probably not particularly safe, but my brain forced me to do it this way.

Luckily, I think it worked, content-wise, and I stand by the stuff that came out of it. But I certainly don’t want people to experience what I experienced. It was hell. I don’t even know if it was worth it, if I’m being honest.

MN: No.

Art is nice, but humans come first.

MN: It’s not the end all, it really isn’t.

It really is not. I don’t advocate for being a martyr for your work, or putting your humanity second to art. I think that’s a dangerous path to take. But, I’ve definitely toed the line sometimes, for sure.

MN: The world loves tormented artists, and tormented artists do it because they have to do it. Nobody’s ever been cured by doing artwork. I can imagine that people maybe have been relieved in certain ways, or had their fortunes changed. But art doesn’t cure you. It’s a crutch. It’s a tool used to get to the next day.

I think that’s right. My old therapist was really worried about me publishing this book. She was like, “This could go one of two ways: This could be a really healing experience for you, or this could significantly worsen your trauma symptoms.”

MN: Do you think stopping the work entirely would feel like a victory, or would it feel like a defeat?

That’s a good question. Stopping this exact work has felt like a victory. I’m excited that this book is out. I’ve finally been getting back to the spiritually motivated visionary art I was making before I got my book deal.

JK: Shifting gears a bit here.

Let’s do it.

JK: So humor and tragedy are very closely aligned, even going back to the Greeks, and it’s in both of your work. Mark, how do you see Kayla skirting that line?

MN: I don’t find her work funny. I find it disturbing, and I also find it visually enticing. So it’s doing the job, but it’s not...I’m not coming to it and leaving with a hearty chuckle.

JK: I don’t think anybody’s coming and leaving with a hearty chuckle. Right?

MN: Kayla is! She thinks it’s hilarious!

I do! [Laughs]

JK: Mark, I can think back to a lot of your earlier work that was funny, but was also not funny. You played with that for a long time. So there’s something compelling about it. You wouldn’t have been doing that type of thing yourself, if you didn’t understand that there is something funny about it.

MN: She’s talking about very specific true-life assaults.

JK: And you’re dealing with stock characters.

MN: I’m dealing with stock characters and I’m dealing with more homogenized content, rather than specific incidents.

Mark, do you ever feel compelled to laugh at my work, but you feel guilty about it?

MN: When I was a kid I went through a phase when I felt compelled to laugh. My mother became very worried because there’d be stories about murders and car crashes on the TV news and I’d be roaring with laughter.

Oh wow. What’s going on there?

MN: I don’t know. It might have been crossed neural wires. Or Roger Grimsby’s delivery. Most likely I was just trying to be annoying. But it's a dichotomy that I have explored quite a bit in my work.

But anyway, yeah, Precious Rubbish is certainly very aligned with that kind of dichotomy. However there’s no humor structure in your work—it’s a tragic structure. It’s repeated with such intensity and rapidity, though, that I can see that, when taken as a whole, maybe it does wind up as some sort of Road Runner comedy of serial assault. Chuck Jones always stressed that the humor wasn’t in the assault, it was in the indignity of living that assault.

That’s really good.

MN: Yeah.

When you tell me that you don’t find it funny, I’m trying to investigate how that makes me feel. And in some ways, I feel protected by you. I feel like maybe it’s an act of care that you’re not laughing, but then I also feel like I failed, because it’s supposed to be funny.

MN: Who laughs at your work besides you?

A lot of people!

MN: Do they? You get responses like, “That was so funny!”?

I do!

MN: When?

Literally all the time, Mark! [Laughs] I hear that almost every time I talk to people about the book. You’re the outlier! You, John, and Chris Ware, actually. But I think that the humor allows people to access a feeling, some kind of reaction that’s related to the suffering.

MN: Right. Laughing at the murder on TV is a positive response. It’s better than just ignoring it.

Or not feeling anything.

MN: Or not feeling anything.

So, in some ways, I do think that’s how it functions.

MN: You’re not using the techniques of humor at all. We could go down the list of all the traditional techniques. You’re not using punchlines. You’re not turning tables. You’re using the look of certain things that have communicated humor over the years but you’re telling it straight and compiling it all like a grocery list. Or maybe a series of messages in bottles.

What about the ads? I think all the fake ads are funny. But in the actual stories, you’re right. Maybe there’s a classic cartoon-y reaction to something, but the text is very direct and very dark. That’s definitely true.

But maybe people don’t read the ads because the text is so small.

MN: Some people may, some people may not. It’s an old trope that Chris Ware uses, and that I’ve used and many others have used. They feel more like a reflection of the story that just preceded it, or like you’re letting off a little steam. But I feel like the strength of those stories is so intense that I don’t get anything from those ads afterwards because I’m still so unnerved.

Interesting.

MN: I’m imbalanced while consuming the stories. For me the extras don’t function like the stress relief that you’re aiming for. If anything they feel like extra nails in the coffin.

JK: I find the stories so compelling that I go directly to the next one. And as Mark was saying, I’m familiar with those types of ads, going back to at least MAD magazine. I like the form, and you do them well. But I just immediately go directly to the next story and then think, “Alright, I’ll go back to that later.”

If it’s meant to serve as a resting period or catch your breath or light moment, it’s not doing that for me because I’m hooked by the story, and I don’t want to be distracted.

MN: Can you tell us about the book's title? What (if any) is your connection to Theodore L. Shaw?

I first encountered T.L. Shaw in one of my favorite books, We All Die Alone by Mark Newgarden. You include some of his work on pages 194-195. He’s also in the last section of the book, titled “Garbage In: That’s Funny?” which is described as “A random miscellany of influences, preferences, prejudices, cherished objects, and tenuous connections.” You wrote:

“Why I didn’t want to be a “fine artist” when I grew up. In a series of obscure 1950s publications with titles like Precious Rubbish, Critical Quackery, and Don’t Get Taught Art This Way, conspiracy art theorist Theodore L. Shaw angrily ranted against the ‘humbuggery’ of the art establishment and instead focused his aesthetic lens on cultural egalitarianism, common sense, optical perception, and the fragile human attention span. His works are dense with charts, graphs, and even gag cartoons delineating his fervent beliefs. So what if he was nuts?”

Obviously I had to buy every T.L. Shaw book I could get my hands on! And Shaw’s Precious Rubbish is such a wild and funny book. I was reading it when I first started drawing this series, so naturally that’s what I had to call these weird little cartoons I was making.

I also was “pushing back” on the idea of being a “fine artist,” seeing as how I was living back home with two greasy pennies in my pocket and a big bottle of vodka in my purse. It was a bleak and unglamorous life. I had seen so many of my peers transition from college immediately into the contemporary art world, working in their little industrial studios, going to graduate school for painting and whatnot, and starting to show their art in hip galleries in Chelsea. I was gagged!

That book mirrored my rage and disgust and T.L. Shaw started to feel like a crazy old friend. Turning my gaze away from the art world and back toward comic books was a significant moment in my creative life. I finally realized that I never stood a chance at being a real artist. I didn’t think I could be a real cartoonist either, but drawing digitally was free and it didn’t take up any space. It wasn’t associated with class or money or exclusivity. And it wasn’t pretentious.

There are a lot of reasons why I used Precious Rubbish for my book’s title, but that’s my connection to Shaw.

JK: Was drawing Precious Rubbish a form of recovery? It must be incredibly difficult to dive back into that world for the purpose of your work.

Drawing Precious Rubbish was not good for me. The healing didn’t happen during the process of making it. The thing that heals is what happens after—it’s when someone else reads it, and there’s a connection. Like the connection I’ve had with you, John, or at a comics festival when someone reads my work and talks to me about it. That’s the part that gives it meaning. If I had continued to make it in isolation and never shared it, it would have destroyed my mental health.

During the process of writing this book, it was purely triggering. The only exception was when I had a PTSD flare-up, and I would gaslight myself into thinking, “This didn’t happen.” Then I went back and reread my comics. I know a lot of cartoonists don’t read their own work, but I do.

It’s like a mirror from my past self telling my future self, “I believe you. This is real. This happened.” That part was grounding and helped me move through the gaslighting.

JK: That’s powerful, but it sounds like such a double-edged sword.

It really is. Other than that, it was pure torture to make it. I eventually started making the work when I was already triggered. For example, I was watching a Casey Anthony documentary a few years ago, after I got the book deal, but I didn’t know there was any mention of father/ daughter incest in her story. Then, BAM, there it was. I unraveled.

After that, I thought, “I need to get back to work on my book.” So I dove into it while I was still a mess, and I actually made a lot of progress. That’s usually how it worked—I used the triggering experiences to push through the work.

MN: Can you take us through your comics-making process? How is a Precious Rubbish story created?

It doesn’t always look the same way each time I draw, but it more or less follows a loose pattern. If, for example, a documentary like that Casey Anthony one triggers me and brings hideous memories flooding to the surface of my mind, I try to write down what’s coming up. I try to catch and document the memories before I bury them again.

And then, like I mentioned, I’ll try and force myself to make something out of it since I’m already feeling busted up. My comics practice is entirely instinct-driven and very freeform. I’ll roll this nasty memory around in my head while digging through public domain comics online. I read, read, read, until something starts to “shine” at me. I’ll pull whatever comics are pinging for me and generally start drawing over them right away. It’s hard to explain with words what it’s like, but the old comics usually call to me or something. And they connect dots in my head, to where I can see the memory start to take shape. That’s how I know I’ve picked the right one to adapt.

Sometimes I’ll draw the whole story, leaving captions boxes empty, and then step away. When I return, I tend to write the whole thing in one short sitting. I rather ruthlessly edit the writing down.

It’s all kind of mushy, though. It’s happened before where I’ve finished a comic and then felt a little off about it, so I deleted all the text and started over, totally fresh, with a new story. Or I’ll go into a finished comic and add in speech bubbles with, for example, specific lines from the Book of Job. It’s a process of being in touch with my intuition (which I choose to see as God’s way of communicating with me) and trusting it every step of the way. It tends to lead to pretty good comics as a result so I’ve stopped questioning it or trying to fight against it.

JK: So you see an end to this chapter?

I do. Precious Rubbish is over. But I still have this compulsion—a spiritual draw, almost, to tell more personal stories. It’s hard to explain. I try to say yes to what I feel God is guiding me to create, even when it’s difficult. But the comics I’ve been making since this book has come out have been surprisingly fun to draw, even though the subject matter is still horrific. They have a bit of a different flair.

JK: It sounds like a lot of your career, like a lot of other cartoonists and artists, so far has been in isolation. Hasn’t that been incredibly hard?

Oh, absolutely. This is the first time I’ve received any kind of gift from the work. It used to offer me nothing but pain. The only people who read my work were a handful of cartoonists I admired. That was it.

JK: Tell me about the cartoonists you were in touch with while you were making this work.

There were four cartoonists I talked to the most: Mark Newgarden, Chris Ware, Ivan Brunetti, and Tim Hensley. They all graciously accepted my awful early mini comics in the mail. Y’all have mentored me for almost 20 years!

JK: Interesting. You have to find the people that you respect and whose opinion actually counts for you and then use that as your baseline.

Exactly.

MN: What artists and cartoonists work are you currently following?

I design books at Fantagraphics for a living and worked on a few stunning memoirs recently: Time Under Tension by M.S. Harkness, Dear Mini Book One by Natalie Norris, and Ephemera by Briana Loewinsohn. I am also an enormous fan of Noah Van Sciver’s comics about his childhood. His wife Amy Chalmers also makes phenomenal comics. She’s one of my favorite contemporary humorists.

But other than that, if I have free time to read and I’m looking to be inspired, I’ll turn to Peanuts, Popeye, Nancy, Krazy Kat, and the like. I’ve designed collections of all my favorite old comics, so those books hold a special place in my heart.

But to be frank, I mostly read spiritual texts and self-help books and am not paying much attention to what’s happening in the contemporary art world. I mean, I’m still thinking about Hilma af Klint’s show “Paintings for the Future” that was at the Guggenheim back in 2019. That could very well consume my attention for the next ten years!

Essentially, I try to fill all the empty space in my head and in my life with God. It doesn’t leave a whole lot of room for much else, which is a good thing for me.

MN: What advice do you have for young people who are looking to make work about their pain?

My best advice is to take great care. Art is never more valuable than the artist, and there is no rush. Making work about personal pain can be dangerous, especially for a person who has not made a lot of progress in some sort of recovery.

I found that it was crucial to have a solid foundation of mental health and stability before baring my soul to the world. I have done something huge, and I am okay. That’s wild! That’s because I took my time, developed healthy coping strategies, spent years in trauma-focused therapy, have almost a decade of sobriety, created distance from my abusers, and found a safe and loving chosen family. That’s what allows me to tell this story and stay safe.

If I had published this book at any other point in my creative life, it would have been an enormous detriment to my mental health.

MN: Do you see yourself as a comics “lifer”?

As long as I have the impulse to make art, I suspect that I will always make comics. Comics are my favorite art form, and their potential is limitless.

JK: What’s next for you?

I'm currently working on a series of paintings and textile pieces, and I have been churning out lots of new comics. My comics practice is essentially a “Let God Take The Wheel” kind of thing, so only time will tell what will come out of it! I'm also continuing to show my work; two of my textile pieces were included in this year's Marfa Invitational, and later this fall I'll have four large-scale comics pieces in an exhibition at the North Carolina Museum of Art. I’m making art like a madwoman!

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