Westward, such as it is, is the result of a single thought I had a few years ago: That I was edging closer to thirty and had yet to tell a story. It may be difficult to understand how this thought troubled me unless you could see the many looseleaf folders and sketchbooks—hundreds and hundreds of pages, the few that survived my adolescence, all filled with pictures of people who never existed. Characters. In my mind, they lived fantastic and tragic lives, growing and changing, their stories expanding and merging like dancing galaxies. The sketches were like snapshots—a vivid but frail breadcrumb trail of their journeys told mainly through portraits. For years, my wife had patiently listened to me for hours as I explained and explored their adventures. She understood that I told her these stories because they somehow represented the most essential elements of who I am. She also understood that these people who never stopped living and changing in my mind weren't really content being confined to quick pencil sketches and late night monologues. And when I had this thought—when I explained that I was getting older and had yet to tell a story—she understood the note of desperation in my voice.

Nearly four years later, I'm scrolling over 708 color comic strips that I've produced. The effect is markedly different from flipping through the old sketchbooks and folders. The latter has always been bittersweet and vaguely frustrating; a dozen stories and a hundred characters emerging as untold, half-realized vignettes, tenuous and embryonic, too closely linked to the escapist fantasies that unwittingly conceived them. The comic strips, on the other hand, are geometric. They are sequential. They are composed and purposeful. They tell a story. Since the first timestamp of October 27, 2009, no sketchbooks have been filled, no folders collected. It would be difficult to express how proud I am of this. I've turned thirty, and I can see that this deep underpinning of my nature has benefited, like every other area of my life, from the application of discipline. Goals, boundaries, commitments made and kept.

Westward is a challenge. For all its multifaceted complexity, its multiplicity of characters, it has challenged me by forcing me to focus my creative energy on one story—perhaps ultimately on one message. It has compelled me, just as it was designed to do, to create intentionally and with determination. Each strip, which you read in thirty seconds, represents 2-5 hours of effort. But I believe Westward is also a challenge for you. It's dense, complicated, with few narrative clues or tidy conclusions. I really believe that many of you read Westward in the same spirit that I create it: Knowing that there is a special satisfaction that comes only from rising to a challenge. Knowing that depth is only realized in commitment.

Westward isn't the highest priority in my life. At least twice, I've come to terms with the fact that it might have to be suspended in the face of reality. Just this week, a financial crisis led me to seriously reevaluate its importance in the face of mortgage and tuition and groceries. But I've learned, as Captain Carter once said, that "The point of making choices is to live with them and keep moving forward." In other words, life blossoms to its full potential not through continually grasping for what you want, but through appreciating and cultivating what you have.

-e