It was mid-August 2008, just a little over a year ago, that W.W. Norton sent me a copy of David Small’s Stitches for editing, and I’ve looked forward to seeing it in print ever since.

Small’s graphic memoir was still in semi-rough shape when I laid hands on it, but even in less-than-finished form, it was clearly a piece of work that was both deeply felt and strongly expressed. I’ve never been a great fan of autobiographical comics; however, there are a few exceptions that transcend the dopey self-indulgence of their fellows, and Stitches is one of those.

It’s the fiercely remembered story of Small’s childhood in the ‘50s and ‘60s, a god-awful tale of dismissal, neglect and worse perpetrated by people with no business reproducing themselves and a criminal ignorance of the rudiments of decent parenting. The book is filled with ghastly anecdotes, perhaps the most unsettling being young David’s visit to the home of a grandmother who’s depicted as being utterly and violently bugfuck, a state of affairs which none of the other adults will acknowledge. Though it’s a relatively brief passage, it’s an important one, epitomizing Small’s vivid memory of the helplessness of children when faced with the insanity of adults. The book, in fact, was originally titled Burning Down the House, a phrase that refers directly to crazy old Grandma.

The published title, of course, refers to Small’s ordeal following a diagnosis of throat cancer – the frightening treatments, the ugly family dynamics, and the botched surgery that left him disfigured and mute for years. In relating this material, Small is honest enough to feel sorry for himself – who wouldn’t? – yet the self-pity never removes us from his narrative or asks us for more than we’re willing to contribute to the reading experience.

Small, who survived all this and went on to become an award-winning illustrator of children’s books, combines illustrated narrative with traditional comics pages to tell his story. There are moments – notably David’s flights of fancy in his younger years (the kind of thing one expects from a character who will one day discover that he’s an artist), and an encounter much later with an understanding psychiatrist – that are almost too twee for words…but then those same segments turn out to carry an unexpected emotional punch or tough-minded narrative coda that jerks the book safely back from the land of embarrassing artsiness.

Small’s most effective moments are those that feature his mother. Though he eventually comes to an understanding of how her life was deformed by her own demons, the portrait he’s created of that bitterly unhappy woman and her banal brutality lingers, and is absolutely haunting.

My editing on Stitches was a freelance gig, like the work I did on Norton’s Eisner volumes, so I’m praising the book here not because of any professional connection but simply because I thought highly of it. It would be nice to claim some credit for how well Small’s book turned out, but my contribution was pretty much one of correcting spelling and making little suggestions like “If you refer to this background detail that you established earlier, we’ll have a better idea of where this panel takes place.” Small’s work was complete and potent in the rough pencil stage, and I’ve been waiting all this time to plug it.

I’m pleased to see what a good job the publisher’s done with the final product, and hope that those who appreciate serious and well-done comics will give Small’s harrowing and ultimately uplifting work a look. There’s always room for material of this caliber, and I’m heartened to see people like David Small entering and enriching the field.

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