In college, I had a comic called Bughouse. It was a goofy sci-fi thing featuring a character named Dexter, who I’d created in high school. I got to a point where I liked all the side characters more than the main character, so I rebooted it as BUGHAUS, a comic about a stoic knight named Dick who was canvassing the galaxy in search of an ancient powerful sword. In a very Star Wars-ian turn of events, he had to hire a ship. That ship was piloted by idiots. In another George Lucas-ish twist, the issue one plot was to be a part of a larger convoluted garbled saga.
Overall, it was an pretty good idea. But I was a newly minted college drop-out, I wasn’t a technically skilled artist, and I was impatient with my own limitations. So what did I do? I decided to draw the whole comic with ballpoint pen. Why? Because I was sick of making a mess with dip pens and bottles of India ink, and I was too lazy to keep my technical pens clean. I wanted to sit anywhere and draw quickly. The result? A really crappy looking comic book. It was sorta funny and had bad guys with toasters for heads and whatever, but it looked pretty bad.
But I made it. I made the damned thing. I was at a point in my life where I just needed to FINISH something, ANYTHING, FOR THE LOVE OF GOD. I pushed ahead with it, scripting and planning and drawing, taking almost two years to squeeze out thirty-two pages.
I completed it in ’95. I made two proof copies at the local copy shop. I showed the project to two or three friends, and then I shelved it.