My mother used to roll her eyes every time I started talking about comics. My intricate and inane knowledge of the history and process of this strange thing (that seemed almost to come from another world compared to anything she could comprehend) was a constant mystery to her as I grew up. I was a precocious child. I couldn’t just read a book that I liked. I would have to read everything by that author, books on that author’s process, and books by that author’s favourite author. I would completely immerse myself in anything I loved.
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