By Jennifer Hayden

So the other day, I was trying to make chicken broth, and the house was filling up with the usual stench of
boiling bird, and my daughter said, “I love that smell. It smells so homey and loving.” And I said, “To me, it
smells like prison. Like some poor asshole who has to stay home all day and cook the fucking chicken
broth.” And she said, “Yeah, that’s why it’s so homey. And loving. It means you love us.” So I said, “Okay,
you’re telling me, you’d rather have me miserable and imprisoned than having fun doing what I love
somewhere else.” My daughter hugged me tight and said, “Absolutely.”

I spent my childhood drawing, my twenties writing, my thirties illustrating children’s books and having a
couple of kids. It wasn’t till I hit my forties that I discovered comix. Rediscovered, since I’d been addicted to
them when I was young. Now that I was precisely not the sort of person who was making comix, I hurled
myself into this thriving, vibrant, fabulous art form. This was the way I wanted to tell my stories. My very
personal, autobiographical stories. The fact that I was a mother somehow escaped me. And wife.

Or maybe it was because I had been through these things that I wanted to express something about them.
But listen, bitches. Bottom line. It’s all about expressing myself. It’s not about making the fucking chicken

Jennifer Hayden


Learn more about Jennifer Hayden and her new book, Underwire.