My mission statement:
I want to be like the Jazz Age illustrators… bottle fed on black coffee, under Hokusai waves of freestanding Brylcreem.
Like the ones who wore Fedoras... to bed.
Who bolted down chicken fried pork chops and a deuce of double martinis... for breakfast.
Who'd scrawl a masterpiece with a burnt wooden match on a past due notice, handcuffed and hung over in the back of a black Mariah... and still make their deadline.
Who, when a pulp editor barked, I need a cover... tomorrow morning... ten luscious tomatoes firing Tommy guns at a ginormous robot... demanded, What TIME tomorrow morning?