It was at some point during middle school that I got really into the idea of webcomics. It wasn’t the fact that the ones I frequented were all that incredible but rather the idea that someone, anyone, me for instance, could, with any level of artistic ability, create a comic and publish it online that pulled me in completely.
The internet has been a miraculous thing for those sorts of pursuits. Video, audio, words, and artwork have flourished online for years and, for people like me, people at a skill level that could hardly be considered professional, it has allowed for the opportunity to experiment, grow, and try something new without a fear of failure.
It’s strange. Print has such a reverence and prestige associated with it. Have something published and maybe a hundred people will see it, but put something online and it’s there for millions, and somehow, for some reason, as print begins to wain, it still holds a level of worth that is—and perhaps will always be—a step higher than anything else. But it’s that reverence, that prestige, that level of worth that creates such a high barrier when trying to go about getting things published and for the high school student, the full-time dad, or the girl just starting out with little to no experienced associated with them, it isn’t always the best option.
It maybe never was the best option.
There’s something necessary about the stage of artistic pursuit where you just do whatever it is you’re striving toward. We get so hung up on the “Is this perfect?” and “Will anyone like this?” that we often just freeze—we quit, we give up, we set something down or, at best, plan it until the right time is over and the magic is lost from the idea. Print gave us an excuse for years that rejection meant we weren’t good enough, that legitimacy on paper meant our idea was invalid, but with the internet, with the ability to publish whatever we’d like whenever we would like to do so, it isn’t the idea that is invalid, but rather the excuse we once were using.
Lined Paper Lamppost was never meant to be perfect. It was meant to create a better artist in me. It was meant to foster a sense of dedication, of forethought and planning—values I’ve never found to be strengths—and with nothing else in mind that could meet those goals, that could foster those values in not only my art, but myself, this webcomic was born, not only when I needed it, but wanted it, most. And LPL isn’t perfect: colors can be dull, the shading pretty flat, the characters inconsistent and the story, nonsense—but one year later, I find myself proud of what I’ve accomplished with this webcomic because I’ve become an artist I never thought I’d be. I never thought I’d be as good an artist as I am. I never thought I’d think about art the way I do. And somehow along the way, it happened: I got to this place, and the want I had for a webcomic when I was in middle school was replaced by a sense of satisfaction having created a webcomic and kept it going for one entire year.
We’ve come a LOOOOOOOOONG way.
Lined Paper Lamppost turns one year old on April 14th and come that date, I have some new plans for what I would like to do. The site will change a little, a fresh coat of paint will be added, and I would like to write up a little post outlining where I’ll be going.
If you’ve been reading my comic, thank you for doing so, I really appreciate your time, but if you haven’t, check it out, if for no other reason know what it is I’m even talking about.