Since I was little I fell in love with European comics and later on with graphic novels from all over the world. I have always wanted to be an author of graphic novels but I restrained myself.
The reasons for that restraint are mainly two. First, in my country no one makes a living from comics as most artist, authors and musicians. Arts and culture are not valued around here. Second, I was and might still be a snob. I pursued social, intellectual and artistic validation which my prejudiced point of view determined it was unobtainable through comics. In short, I was – and, again, might still be – a pretentious brat.
Prejudice destroyed me with restraint after restraint on an imbecile endeavor for acceptance as an author and as an independent individual, to the point of not knowing what pleases me anymore. My concern was how others would see me. In the process I ceased to exist.
This is not new. It is a cliche. Laughter takes off. I am human.