JOURNAL ENTRY: Nashville Comic Arts Festival, 2025, taking care of independent kids, identity, and struggling in art
6:15am on Saturday, October 4, 2025; home-brewed Nespresso coffee with cream sits to my right, my beat-up 2019 MacBook Pro struggles to keep up with Adobe Illustrator, and my excitement for NCAF is building – Nashville Comic Arts Festival was my favorite independent comic show from last year. It went so well in 2024, I wanted to be more prepared this time. I had a table at the Nashville Punk Rock Flea Market at Eastside Bowl a couple of months back when I realized my table lacked a few useful bits: take-away sheets explaining myself and my books, pricing and description indicators, etc. I could have designed and printed these the night before, but I was worn out. I needed to be at the show by 10am for an 11am start. I’d already spent a few hours on some freelance graphic design and eight hours at my pay-the-bills situation. You know how it is. Sometimes tired is on its way to mean. I’ve learned it’s not fair to me or others when I allow that traversal.
So, I got myself up early before a comic convention to knock out some last-minute improvements. This is one of my favorite rituals. I have no idea what’s ahead, but there are a few more-likely-than-nots. I’ll get to talk to at least one person about at least one of my books – even if it’s Joe Christy, and even if it’s for the twelfth time. What a friend. Ever-willing and ever-enthusiastic – even when something you’re doing isn’t his thing: even when he has other shit happening. Storytelling is precious to him. His intentionally-tended family is a manifestation of this. He loves his family as a stubbornly-focused, passion-convicted protagonist. I love him. I love what he aspires to be, and the way he pulls himself back mid-sentence when he finds himself contradicting his core – his calling. We often sit next to each other at these shows – with another wonderful human, Andy Gordon, a few feet to Joe’s other side. Even when Joe is across the convention floor, though, his spirit spills throughout the showroom toward those he believes in. Visitors at the convention carry Joe’s name back to you. Each time it’s a small boost – a reminder someone extremely qualified and good believes in you. What a friend.
Andy Gordon shares a lot with Joe. His spirit is generous in adjacent ways. He’s sweet-spirited. He carries a sincerity mingled with that same soul-charging quality as Joe. He can tell how much I like him. Sometimes he’ll stroll by my table and swing up a single finger. “I promise, I’ll be back!” It’s not condescending, but it recognizes how excited I am to see him. Sometimes, I’m a fucking puppy. That’s okay, though. I’m learning to love that part of me.
A few years ago I visited another comic show – Nashville Comicon. It takes place in a massive brightly-lit warehouse-ish building at the Nashville Fairgrounds. I had tried to get a table that year, but it didn’t work out for one reason or another. Instead, I grabbed my then underdeveloped portfolio and walked the aisles. I didn’t know it at the time, but I was creatively lonely. I felt uncertain, unseen, and inconsequential. Being an artist is an odd juxtaposition, sometimes. We connect with one another for different reasons, and different combinations of reasons. Sometimes passion is enough to seed connection. Sometimes a person’s approach resonates. Sometimes it’s some unseen aspect – spirit or aura, perhaps.
Encountering Tina Isola‘s booth was a moment of epiphany for me. The work she displayed was simple, elegant, and so confident. Her depictions of fantasy were personal and whimsical all at once – with a technical proficiency many professionals would relish. Most of all, she had a vision which flowed consistently through her work, booth design, personality, and presence. I purchased a hand-bound collection of coloring sheets and brought it home to my oldest. We looked at it together, and had a common moment of joy. As I’ve begun attending more of these shows, I’ve had the pleasure of seeing Tina and her vision sprawl. It’s a bit like watching a compelling narrative all-its-own. Her booth is intimidating, to be honest – a bit like that one house on the block who takes Christmas lights to a level of precision and design you didn’t realize could manifest. That’s not to infer her setup is gaudy; it has more to do with the gasp-response her displays frequently elicit. On top of that, Tina is a tireless advocate and embodiment of art as community. As Joe once said, “She busts her ass.” The Nash Illustrators group is one example of this, and constantly benefits from her strategy and tenacity.
7:49am on Saturday, October 4, 2025; my heart sank. My oldest child, Lee, called. Today was the first time they would be driving more than an hour away. That was another reason I decided to get up early – Lee needed to leave at 5:45am, and I wanted to give the typical father speech:
“Please, be careful. I believe in you, but you’ve been driving for a while now – this is when it becomes familiar. It’s easy to forget how dangerous it can be. Just kind of try to refresh that caution for me.”
It’s a speech designed for single use, but it’s likely entering ad nauseum territory. With the conversation still in my mind, seeing that call come through sent a roll of adrenaline over me. I was very happy to hear it was just a blown tire – granted, the second blown tire in two weeks. Anyone I ran into at the convention knows the rest of the story. I got there to discover two blown tires. Turns out there was a nutty accident on I-65 earlier that morning involving 65,000 spilled nails and screws. I got to be a dad to an ever-more-independent kid. I shared the situation repeatedly at the convention. It felt like bragging, but anyone who really understands me well would know otherwise. I was sharing a bit of happiness folded within a relatable moment. While I was helping my kid, I felt a great amount of gratitude and pride. Lee is independent – to a scary degree, sometimes. Being able to assist and share process helps me feel connected in a way I can’t describe. I recently finished an illustration of a father rocking his baby. Spiritually it’s Lee and I – Lela at the time.
It’s a challenge to explain the mix of chemistry and biology wrapped up in being a father during moments like that. Rocking your baby. Your baby. Changing tires. Demonstrating patience and appreciation for those odd-shaped, inconvenient opportunities to serve that ever-present warm spot on one side of your chest. Losing that heartbeat-to-heartbeat connection isn’t instant, and isn’t purely physical. There’s an invisible flesh that never rends. It does, however, twist and stretch. It pulls and threatens to rip. If you persist, you do so understanding pain will be the toll. Yet, as we all embark toward wisdom, don’t we all discover that inevitability? This formula is why I find releasing god – in whatever form – so difficult. I’m not entirely sure why those two connect in my mind.
My relationship with Lee isn’t always easy. We disagree profoundly on a singular aspect of life. For a long time, I bucked and battled and fought to rescue them from their interpretation of their life. If I hadn’t, I would have forever wondered if I’d been a coward. How can I be benign in the face of what I see as danger in pursuit of my child? There comes a point, though, where the battles become screaming. In the moment, that can feel appropriate – until you realize you’re risking a scar in favor of victory.
The tension between accepting your child’s autonomy and accepting fundamental disagreements feels like carving away a part of your soul. But then, you catch yourself in your baby’s presence. That permanent warm spot on your chest begins to spread. You find your peace so you might live in that rare return. Sometimes, it’s a bit like rocking – the cadence of the curve just changes.
After I got Lee’s girlfriend to her craft fair (she was tabling at a show that day, too), and took care of Lee’s tires, I began the drive back to NCAF. I remembered what it was like for me to spend the day supporting my first girlfriends. The pride. The hope. The real connecting happening in shared aspiration. I could kind of feel Lee riding beside me as we drove away from one another. Thank god for whatever spirits are. That’s love, isn’t it – that sooth which manifests simply from the thought of someone?
Once I got to the NCAF, I ran into one wonderful moment after another. Joe swung by to check on me – offering a sincere “You good, man? We’ll talk after, if you need.” I had the privilege of sitting next to the sweet and talented creator of Plants and Surgery. She and her friends were so kind and so supportive of one another. Simply being near was a pleasure. Monochrome Mythology (Jeremy Sosnick) came over and immediately asked if I was okay. His partner sat behind his booth display in the most charming beanie-version of Mercury’s helmet – a nod to Jeremy’s logo. It made me smile; that and catching glimpses of them laughing to one another. A bit later, Ryan Hogrefe stopped by and shared his plans to review my sci-fi comedy graphic novel Bobby’s Super Squad (formerly NEX). That kind of effort to uplift other creators always means so much. I got to meet Brian from the local Fairytales Nashville bookstore. He was so kind and interested. I also made friends with a guy wearing a Deep Space Nine baseball cap – neat (as Joe would say). I also got to put a lot of faces with digital faces. Meeting Jaired Messing was wonderful. What passionate, kind, generous dude. Just seems so happy to be in the comic scene and talking about what he loves.
Once I’d put in an hour or so at my table, I grabbed a couple of books and sought out two creators I’d been hoping to meet. I’d encountered Janet Lee before, but never gotten to share how her linework inspired some of my own illustrations. I got to hand her a copy of The Path: Rae’s Crusade – a book she, along with a few others (Tina, Joe, and my mischievous daughter Luci), directly inspired. I also dropped off a copy of Scar Tissue #1 to John G of Shiner Comics. I’d only recently discovered his work, but it connected. His rough rough lines, dynamic layouts, and storytelling beats feel like the next level for a lot of what I’d like to do. Little did I know – his artistic choices are a reflection of his personality (at least in the compact moments we shared). He’s unique and sincere in a rare, and sometimes raw, way. His writing is thoughtful, and dialogue sharp. I’m excited to discover more of his art and writing.
I try not to look at my phone while I table at cons. That said, I did spy on Lee’s Life360 location from time to time – sort of ensuring the tires continued to meet the need. I ran across some fantastic new comic pages from a fantastic new friend. Joe had connected Rich Kemp and I earlier this summer, and Rich had texted over his latest efforts in our group chat. He’s working on a new project he’s calling The Ashes of our Existence. I loved them, and said so. He’s finding new feet for his stories – it’s a fun process to see. It was nice to have him at the con – if only digitally. 🙂
Funnily, the biggest surprise of NCAF was one I had planned and forgotten in the day’s chaos. I’ve known Jason Horn for decades now. When I saw his name on the NCAF table roster, I was thrilled. He’s an odd guy – he’d be the first to say. Fortunately, I’m an odd guy. We don’t connect often. When we do, the first few minutes are spent explaining our oddness to one another. We move on to our distant appreciation of one another’s work, and end with a plan to connect and catch up. We usually do. Then, each of us falls back into the wonderful whirlpool of kids and middle-age. I often wonder if this pattern will persist into our geriatric eras. I’m fine if so – although more of Jason would be wonderful too.
The struggles of parenting and the struggles of creating – in some ways, the journeys are similar. Although, the stakes are quite different. When I was in my thirties, I’d wondered if I should have focused a bit more on art – taken the risk of de-prioritizing monetary stability in favor of my “dream.” Really, though – who gives a shit? That version of life is a fiction. If it did manifest, struggle would persist – just differently. When I dream, those visions resemble the perfect peace of rocking my baby. Those heaven-view moments do happen – thank god. Most of life is something different – more akin to changing tires. If we’re lucky, a grateful hug follows.
The warm spot is still there – will always be there – it just changes.
