”I spend my days with a baby and that, patriarchy says, is not the stuff of art”*

I noticed how I partly consisted of stories I wasn’t telling; even to myself. On thoughts and feelings generated by sharing life with a child; every other week. On being a mother. I needed get them down on paper, to blast out a space for them. The process has been a turbulent ritual of (self-)validation. And the result is an epic existential drama in a fragmented graphic-novelish book format.

*Claire Vaye Watkins, On Pandering