This is a profession for me, but I started off as a

The words of Gene Luen Yang — “This is a profession for me, but I started off as a self-publisher working on my own schedule and my own stuff before moving on to graphic novels with First Second Books, where there was definitely a schedule, but it was very different from monthly comics.” — speak with the voice of one who has journeyed from solitude into structure, from independence into collaboration. It is the story of the artist’s path, the evolution from the raw freedom of the lone creator to the disciplined craft of the professional, and it carries within it a timeless lesson: that both freedom and structure are necessary stages on the road to mastery.

To be a self-publisher is to stand alone, armed only with imagination and will. There is no guide, no system, no master above you — only your own determination to create. This is the wilderness where many fail, yet where resilience is born. Here, Yang began his journey, shaping stories without deadlines but with the fire of vision. The ancients would have called this the apprenticeship of the soul, where one learns not by command, but by the inner drive to bring forth something from nothing.

Yet he speaks also of moving on — for no one remains forever in the wilderness. The artist who has proven his will must eventually test his craft in the marketplace of others. For Yang, this meant graphic novels with First Second Books, where the freedom of the lone wanderer gave way to the rhythm of shared schedules, expectations, and a greater audience. It was not the monthly grind of mainstream comics, but a new kind of discipline, where stories had to be shaped not only by personal vision but by collective responsibility.

This pattern is as old as creation itself. Consider the journey of Michelangelo. In his youth, he carved alone, chasing the purity of form and the passion of his spirit. But as his career grew, he was called to the service of popes and princes, bound by commissions, deadlines, and the needs of patrons. Though constrained, he created the Sistine Chapel, a work that required both personal genius and the patience to endure structure. Without his self-taught strength, he could not have begun; without the discipline of collaboration, he could not have completed.

Yang’s words remind us that true profession is born at the meeting point of freedom and discipline. The schedule of the lone artist builds resilience; the schedule of the professional builds endurance and responsibility. One stage teaches self-mastery, the other teaches harmony with others. Both are necessary, for one without the other leaves the artist incomplete.

The lesson is clear: embrace the stage you are in. If you are in solitude, use it to cultivate your voice, your vision, your courage. Do not despise the quiet years of obscurity, for they are your training ground. If you are within the discipline of a larger structure, embrace the challenge of accountability, of serving an audience, of creating not only for yourself but for the world. In both places, you are being sharpened, shaped into something greater than you were.

Practical wisdom follows. Begin by creating — even if no one sees, even if it is only for yourself. Build the habit of expression, the courage of completion. Then, when the time comes, step into larger arenas, where your work will be tested by schedules, deadlines, and the eyes of others. Do not fear the shift; it is not the loss of freedom, but the gaining of refinement. And always remember that each stage, whether free or structured, has its own lessons.

Thus, Yang’s words endure as a parable for every creator: first create for yourself, then create with others, and through both, you will find mastery. The path of the artist, like the path of life, is not one of stillness but of moving on from one stage to the next. Honor the solitude, embrace the structure, and let both shape you into a maker whose work can endure the tests of time.