Writer, Artist, Meathead and Nu-Weird Enthusiast
Arguably the nicest self-proclaimed, ill-tempered bitch this side of the internet.
World's best manuscript dad. Father of approx. 439 original children, five worlds, three dimensions, four fictional publishing companies, and a blue 1968 Plymouth Roadrunner.
(Doing my best to raise them to be lovable, punctuated, grammatically correct, mass-market hardcovers.)
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Sometimes I post sketches of these things here.
Sometimes I'm too busy punching keys and slamming espresso shots. It's a complicated relationship.
My art is a scribbled, impatient mess, not because I don't care enough, but because I'm a brooding twenty-something with low prospects that didn't get to be edgy enough in her teens: Call me a Dadaist, or call me Daddy.
I'm adaptable.