Years ago I mentioned to a friend that I was planning to cook dinner. She responded by sending me a comic strip, titled Why I Don’t Cook at Home. It was silly, with clearly computer-generated illustrations of dopey, blob-like characters. But what got me was this amazing combination of crass language, sight gags, and snark. True millennial humor. I laughed until I nearly fell out of my chair, and that was my introduction to The Oatmeal.

If you’re reading this and unfamiliar with The Oatmeal, do yourself a favor and click here. The brainchild of cartoonist Matthew Inman, it’s a web comic launched in 2009. A lot has changed since then; Inman’s artistic style (and humor) have evolved, and as a longtime fan it’s been gratifying to watch. But while I’ve always had a good chuckle reading Inman’s work, since taking up writing I’ve been inspired by it.

In honor of The Oatmeal‘s ten-year anniversary, Inman recently posted an eight-part comic on the creative process. Having read his comics over the years, I loved every bit of it. Perhaps in part due to the waves of emotions amidst the pandemic, I spent most of the read shifting rapidly between tears and hysterical laughter. The laughter happened because he talked a lot about his past work, most of which I was familiar with. The tears happened because he went into surprising detail about what went into those pieces. And as a writer, I found I could relate.

For a long time, Inman’s work was almost exclusively the kind of nonsense seen in that first comic I read. Then, he did something different. Out of the blue, Inman posted a comic entitled When Your House is Burning Down, You Should Always Brush Your Teeth. Of course I clicked on it, expecting it to be one of his brief, irreverent one-panel gags. Instead, I found a long, grueling, powerful comic about his childhood home burning down; a tragedy his family barely survived, and one nearly all of his family’s housecats did not.

Now, I know a lot of his fans weren’t happy with that. “This isn’t very funny” is probably a sentence that clogged his inbox the following day. No doubt it made a lot of people very angry. But for my part, as someone who always sought his work when I needed a good laugh, I was surprised by how much I enjoyed it. Yes, it was something totally different. But it made me feel something. Somehow, I felt a strong connection with this person I’d never met. I felt as though I’d been given a glimpse into his mind, that I had seen what he was really about, deep down.

I do not know Matthew Inman (though I wish I did). Knowing what I know about his work, I assume the story behind that comic is certainly true. But I feel at least some of the details may have been exaggerated, or altered (perhaps for his family’s privacy). If any of that is so, as a writer I can relate. But somehow, even though I have no way of verifying the details of his story, it still felt like one of the most genuine things I’d ever read. Because while the details may have been off, in the end the details didn’t matter. It wasn’t about the events themselves; it was about the feeling. And while reading that comic, between Inman’s words and illustrations, even his color choices, I believe I could truly feel what he felt. Deep down, beneath all the irreverent humor, beneath the dopey blobs and butt jokes and talking cats, there was someone who, sometimes, was very much not okay.

And somehow, I felt better, knowing that.

The creative world has changed. Once, not so long ago, writers tended to lift themselves above it all. Their public persona would be a carefully-crafted image, defined solely by their work. But we live in an age where everyone is connected. Readers today expect a level of intimacy that simply wasn’t possible before the internet, or social media, or Twitter or Instagram. If they like your work, they want more than just additional work. They want you. And the real trick to connecting with readers today is to give them that connection without sharing too much. To keep something to yourself when your readers demand it all.

That, I think is the most valuable lesson I’ve learned from Matthew Inman, of the many lessons in creativity I’ve learned from him: how to be yourself without giving yourself away. As I said, I don’t know Matthew Inman, and indeed I know very few details about him. In some ways it’s surprising that someone with such a ubiquitous online presence can lead such a private personal life. And yet at times I feel that I, like all of his longtime readers, do know him. Really know him. Because in that house fire comic and many others since, he poured himself into his work. Because, to paraphrase Ernest Hemingway, he sits in front of his tablet and bleeds.

Many of my longtime readers will remember a time, early on, when I attempted to write essays. I love science, so of course I wanted to write about it. But I am no journalist, and my essays frequently read like dry articles. Besides, I wasn’t telling my readers anything they hadn’t heard anywhere else. Then, on a lark, I began writing posts while editing my first novel. More than anything, it was a way to organize my thoughts, and voice my feelings as I went about modifying a work I’d once thought complete. But as I posted, I noticed something strange: my readership began to swell. Rapidly. I was shocked. I didn’t feel I was saying anything of particular interest. I wasn’t talking about wheeled space stations, or Wernher von Braun, or terraforming Mars. I was just talking about me. And apparently, everybody loved it. At first, I was taken aback. I began joking with friends that my readers would rather hear me talk about my writing than read my writing itself.

But once I moved past the umbrage, I began to understand. Readers today have unprecedented access to information. They have the veritable sum-total of human knowledge at their fingertips. Everyone carries a combination encyclopedia and newsreel in their pocket. Readers want something unique. They want something they haven’t seen before. I’m not part of the spaceflight industry. I have no special insight to offer. So when you get down to it, there is one and only one thing I can offer to readers that they can’t find anywhere else.

Me.

So I began writing me. When writing nonfiction pieces, I stopped dutifully conveying facts, and instead wrote what I felt. I began translating my experience into words, and sharing that with the world. Maybe some of my readers don’t like it. I’m sure many do not. I may have lost a few along the way. But it’s hard to be too upset about that. Because if nothing else, I am writing the truth.

It’s strange that I’ve gotten to the point where new writers will ask me for advice. Frankly, I still feel I have no idea what I’m doing half the time. But one of the more common bits of advice I give out is this: write the truth. Even if you’re writing fiction. Especially if you’re writing fiction. Because something doesn’t have to have actually happened to convey truth. It just has to be genuine, not written without fear, but filled with dread and written anyway. It has to show the writer bare, at their most vulnerable. Sometimes it hurts. I often take a day or more, sometimes even a week, to finish a really true piece (this one, for instance). But it’s important work, because there’s a good chance someone else out there feels the same way I do. And maybe, just maybe, that someone else will read what I’ve written, and feel just a little bit better knowing another shares their fears, their pain, their outrage or joy. And if just one person feels that way, well, I think I can live with that.

The fact is, I’m not Ernest Hemingway. I refuse to suffer for my art, but when suffering for other reasons I refuse to do so silently. I don’t need to invite my readers into my living room to let them know me. And I can convey a clear sense of who I am without giving my street address, or my place of employment, or even my girlfriend’s name. Because for readers, who’ve never met me and likely never will, none of that is important. All of it is fluff about some random guy they’ll never know. One they might not even like.

But just as there’s Matt Inman and The Oatmeal, there’s Mike and there’s Michael T. Kuester.

Full disclosure: I began this piece months ago. As often happens, life got in the way. I’ve been a “COVID Refugee” as I’ve put it, for months now. Both my sister and I visited my parents in Pennsylvania during the pandemic and found ourselves stranded here by repeated outbreaks at our respective homes. Between that and going back to work (remotely), I allowed my writing to lapse. But I sit here resolved not only to return to my writing, but to see to it that this is my last “looks like I’m back” post. Ever.

I resolve, from this point onward, to live here. To share myself and my life with my readers, as much as I can. To write the truth, as I understand it. Because deep down, that’s what I want to do. I want to speak, and be heard. I want to make as many positive impacts as I can in the world, and if I have to bleed to do it, then bleed I shall. This year has, thus far, been one of the most challenging of my life. What started out as a devastating tragedy has instead somehow transformed into a wild, confusing roller coaster ride. Somehow, improbably, I managed to find meaning in the midst of all this.

Stay safe, my friends. And welcome back to my universe. – MK