When I was a kid, I wanted to be an “inventor” when I grew up. Over the years, though, I made two unsettling discoveries. First, “inventor” isn’t really a job title. Second, everything I “invented” (read: had a vague idea about) had already been invented, usually decades earlier, by someone who had actually thought it through.
So as I got older, I settled on a new, much more realistic goal: I would become a rockstar! That somehow didn’t pan out either. I learned to play the guitar and started a band, but it turns out world domination takes more than owning an amp. It takes drive and a plan, and I didn’t have enough of either.
In the end, I became a comic artist. Technically I still make things up for a living, so maybe my inner inventor won after all. These days I’m buried in adult responsibilities like everybody else: bills, taxes, children, and forms that want to know my “occupation.” But I still have this sneaking suspicion that I’ll make it through this whole life without ever really growing up.
Stef
